[Mulligan]

It wasn’t late, at least, not late enough. Not to be getting a text like this. Sure it was normal enough for Clementine to get carried away at some part or club, and yes, Alex was accustomed to getting a sweet if tipsy (drunken, but he’d never say that. Never, ever, never) phone call from his little sister asking for a ride or a car or a cab. They had a deal, unspoken but there. She was allowed to do what she wanted, he wasn’t her father or her boss or her keeper, but he didn’t want her doing anything stupid, anything that would get her into trouble or get her hurt. In all things in Alex’s life his career and his place in the city came first, as well as the opinion of it’s citizens, opinions that trickled down and up from his family and what they did. In this, though, with her, she was all that mattered, never any of the rest.

And because of that, because of how much he cared for her more than anything else in his world, Alex couldn’t help but to feel an emotion he was neither accustomed to or comfortable with: worry. The text was just that, a text, and that was odd enough in itself. The phone call was what he expected, if he had been expecting anything, which he hadn’t. It was far too early, as well, and he didn’t think that she’d been going out with anyone or anywhere in particular. All those things weren’t the most damming, though, the most worrying. What was instead was the shortness with which she’d communicated. Two lines, four words; a demand and a location. Not even the signature less than three that she signed all of her messages (at least to him with).

His shower had been taken a couple hours ago, and he had been lounging in his room clad in soft cotton pants which hung loosely from his hips and to his ankles, chest free of any clothing, flipping through that month’s Economist. It was eleven or twelve, and sleep would be soon to come, or so he had hoped, hopes that had changed as soon as his phone had chirped, letting him know that a message had arrived. A message that changed his evening drastically.

With a quick press of his thumb he was calling her back, rising anxiously from his bed as the phone continued to ring, no answer coming. Well. Then. There it was. Panicking in a way that only this could make him panic, Alex rushed through his room, grabbing a sweater and his car keys, holding his cell tight within his grasp as he reached for his wallet, sliding into flip-flops that he never, ever, wore out side of the house. In a dash he was out the door, taking the stairs in favor of an elevator that would take to long and racing to the garage where he found the car that he loved, loved so much that he didn’t drive it, because really, driving wasn’t within his strengths.

Clementine, though, was in need of rescue, one that seemed more needful than those before it, and even the car, his car, wasn’t worth being skipped over in favor of waiting for a safer mode of transportation, no, waiting wasn’t to be allowed at all. With a squeal of rubber Alex extricated the Audi Spyder and himself from the garage, leaping onto the busy thoroughfare, trying to do his best to pay attention to his driving, he really didn’t want a repeat of last time. Using his power wasn’t that much fun at all.

Finding the club was no problem, that he could do. Alex had been raised in the city his entire life, and New York was something he lived and breathed, much less knew like the back of his hand. He loved it, loved it, loved it, enough to give up a lot. Finding Clementine, though, that would prove more difficult, especially if she continued to fail answering her phone. Handing his precious car over to a valet, Alex began to make his way into the club, finding his only difficulty to be his state of dress, or undress, the bouncers not looking very favorably on the sleepy looking forty something who had arrived in sweats and sandals. Spyder or no spyder, he didn’t really appear to be club material.

[Clementine Valentine]

She really, really, ought to have known better. The problem was that Clementine Valentine did not often think about what she was doing. Not the real kind of thinking that most normal people did anyway, weighing pros and cons and possible scenarios, or even just taking that all important step backwards to evaluate a situation and wonder if what she was doing was the right thing, or if it was going to land her in some kind of trouble.

Trouble, she cheerfully maintained, was way more fun.

The night had started off pleasantly enough, a flurry of texts with some of her friends resulting in a shared decision to go out to a club that Jessica swore was the best place she'd ever been. Generally one club was much the same as another to Grace, whose biggest concern was the quality of the booze and the attractiveness of the men, shallow thing that she was. Getting into clubs was no trouble for the model, of course, and she and her gaggle of girlfriends were having quite the night thus far.

Right up until Grace got drunk enough to think blowing bubbles in public was funny, anyway.

Generally speaking the blonde didn't use her mutation very much. People on the whole weren't all that keen on mutants, after all, not even pretty, kind of famous ones like her, and even Grace wasn't quite so bold as to ignore that. At least, not sober. Drunk, on the other hand, and with some of her more accepting friends, well what were a few bubbles left dancing in the darkened club air? It wasn't like they could hurt anyone, and it left she and her friends giggling as they sought (clumsily) to pop them all before they floated up out of reach.

Cocooned in her little world, at a table off to the side with her friends, Grace remained blissfully ignorant of the first few mutters and dark looks from those that happened to walk past their table, and frankly had had enough alcohol at this point not to care if she had noticed. People could just get over themselves. Harder to ignore was the drink hurled in her face, shock cutting short the peals of laughter that fell from her mouth, wide disbelieving eyes staring at the man who dared do such a thing to her. When he smirked and called her a dirty mutie, the only thing that stopped her from launching herself at him (as ineffectual as any physical attack from her might be) were the hands of her friends firmly latched onto her skinny arms and refusing to let her go.

His mission accomplished the man disappeared back into the crowd, while Grace was hurriedly bundled off to the bathroom to try and clean up a little. Furious (and more than a little hurt underneath it, not that she would admit it), Grace did what she always did when life was not going her way -- she called for her big brother. She'd had enough of being out tonight, and despite her other failings she'd always had the good sense to take a cab or ask Alex to send a car when she she'd been drinking. Usually she called, but with friends doing their best to mop alcohol out of what had been perfectly styled blonde locks she merely sent him a text (a far more brusque text than her brother usually received, but she could apologize later), before the device was dropped in her purse while she focused her attention on cleaning up.

It was quite some time before she re-emerged from the bathroom, still in an extremely bad mood and having made the decision to wait for Alex (or the car he would send) outside. All things considered it was a good choice of action, only ruined by running into the same lunatic who'd decided that drink throwing was an acceptable way to behave. He smirked, Grace glared, all snooty outrage as hands landed on her hips. "Get out of my way," she snapped, in a tone that clearly demonstrated that she expected to be obeyed immediately. Unfortunately, tonight wasn't really her night.

[Mulligan]

The club was posh, prestigious, at least one A-lister present every night. Such status, such fame, made it difficult for anyone to get it. It was unlisted, yes, and you had to know people who knew people in order to even find the location of the place. Alex had all of that, he knew of it because he knew Clementine and his pretty little sister with the rockin’ bod and alluring smile, well, she knew everyone. It was because of this and her that Alex had been introduced to this side of the world some time after his sister had stumbled into her gig. He didn’t frequent it often, it wasn’t really his shtick, but now and again he had been known to accompany her, or, more regularly, to be the one to extricate her from any predicament.

He wasn’t cool, but he was the cool older brother and he was more than okay with that.

Clementine’s name, though, it wasn’t getting him anywhere that night. Tired and frustrated, sick with concern, Alex wasn’t his normal charming self. The smile was banished, the hair far from perfect, and the light sweater to keep out the uncommon chill on the summer night, it was doing him no favors. The bouncer wasn’t either. Grumbling to himself Alex dipped his hand into the bagginess of his pant’s pocket, locating his wallet and his identification. Getting into clubs this way was not a good thing, it would be a bad thing for himself, the club, and likely his sister’s reputation, but it didn’t matter. It would work. It always did. Power was addictive that way.

All it took were words like ‘underage’ and ‘liquor license’ and soon Alex was bypassing the rest of the line and being escorted into the crowd. He was being taken to the manager, and what he was going to say to him he didn’t know, he’d make up something, eventually, on his way, all the while looking for the only person that mattered to him more than his career. The only person who could put him in a position like this, in public like this, and he wouldn’t mind at all. As long as she was safe, as long as she was okay.

But the manager and the explanation and the ruse that he would create for his purpose would all have to wait. Above the din and the music, or under it, Alex didn’t know, he was able to pick out the sound of his sister’s voice. He might not have been there for her first words but he had heard more of her and spoken more to her than he did to any other individual on the planet. What she was saying went unknown, but her tone was unmistakable. She wasn’t happy, she was mad or perturbed, and Alex had to wonder immediately if it had something to do with the message he’d received.

With a dismissive hand gesture at his escort, Alex shouldered his way into the crowd. He wasn’t tall, and in his state of undress he was far from imposing. Determined, though, oh that he was, and no one would stand between him and Clementine, no one or nothing. Suddenly he found an opening, a clearing, and saw the eyes of others as they locked on whatever it was that was about to unfold between them. Her name fell from his lips in a breath of relief, “Clementine.” Uttered as he strode forward (a feat made difficult by the shoes he was wearing) to place a protective hand on her wrist. “You okay?” He continued, his voice low and his words directed towards her ears alone.

In a timing that couldn’t be more perfect the bouncers which had trailed him through the club caught up, looking more impressive than Alex could have even ventured to. “It seems that more pressing matters have come up.” Alex said, pulling himself to his full height and trying his damnedest to be the DA without all the trappings that came with the job. "I'll make an appointment to see your manager and go over the records at a later time." Maybe he could work in a tax cut too, some sort of benefit for helping the city's economy. Something so that he wouldn't totally tarnish Clementine's name.

[Clementine Valentine]

Technically Grace was an adult. With a sum total of twenty-two years under her (extremely fashionable) belt anyone in society would call her such. She was old enough to vote, to drink, to smoke...about the only thing she wasn't adult enough to do was run for President, and who wanted a boring job like that anyway? Well, Alex maybe, but he was far more suited to handling that sort of thing, obviously.

So yes, she was an adult, but the number of times she actually acted like it? Next to nil. She was an adult, but a young one, one generally used to getting what she wanted with a pretty pout or bat of her perfectly made-up eyes. She'd never had to learn to be responsible or to be the bigger person, or anything else that would enable her to handle this particular situation with really any sort of dignity at all.

Instead she was glaring at the man across from her, who seemed not at all inclined to acquiesce to her request, and only barely resisting the urge to stomp her foot like an overgrown toddler. "Make me," had been the challenge issued, and she had no idea how she was going to do that but she'd be damned if she just let someone talk to her that way.

Whatever ill-advised action she was about to take was stalled by the timely arrival of her brother, hand on her wrist and familiar voice in her ear. At any other time she would have likely made some sort of horrified face at what he was wearing, at the way he was not anywhere close to the perfectly put-together man the public usually saw. She didn't mind him looking that way at home - home was the refuge where she didn't have to wear makeup, could wear the most tattered pair of sweats she owned and be perfectly content - but in public? No, no, no.

Fortunately (or perhaps unfortunately) she was far more concerned about the oaf blocking her forward momentum, and she pointed an imperious finger at him while addressing her brother. "He threw his drink on me." She was almost comically outraged in relaying this fact, prompted no doubt but the smug look on the man's face. Ruining her hair was no laughing matter. "And now he won't move." And this time she did stomp her foot, not caring if she looked stupid (the alcohol she'd consumed thus far probably helped with that) or if she was making a scene. She would not stand for this type of boorish behavior. (Not that she would even know what that word meant, let's be honest.)

Oh and look! Alex had brought bouncers with him. He was so good at anticipating her needs, though she did look a little confused by what he said to them. Just throw the jerk out of the place and be done with it. "Why are you going over their records?" Subtlety was not really her strong suit.

[Mulligan]

From the text that he had received Alex thought that something horrific had happened to his sister, or was about to happen, or in the process of happening. He could have been a little sensitive to the possibility of something else going wrong in his life, or fearing another does of badness, but as he found her, seemingly whole and hale and well enough, relief washed over him. For anyone else agitation would have swelled, followed with maybe a dash of anger. He'd been dragged out of the warmth of his bed and the sanctuary of their apartment looking, well, looking like he did. Alex never came out like this. Never, for anything at all. He was mortified to be wearing what he was, but at the possibility of being able to save Clemmy from harm anything had been worth it.

Now though...

Now that he knew she was safe and that it was something on the Clementine level of severe and serious, Alex could feel the muscles in his back relax and his lungs once more having the capability to expand fully. He wasn't mad at her, he wasn't even irritated, he was just gratefully, fully and totally and absolutely grateful. And exhausted. And wanting to just pat her on her blonde little head and take her home so that he could sink back into his bed and find some sort of semblance of a break from the sudden circus that his life seemed to have become.

But that blonde head was wet, sticky-drenched with something that smelled like booze, and Clementine, who was often prone to fit-throwing due to the spoiled nature of her upbringing, Clemmy was mad. She was mad and that got Alex's hackles up again. She could be silly and, well, not the smartest thing in the world, but she was his and no one, not even him was to work her into such a state, especially not a man. Alex and his father might not agree on a great many things, but they agreed wholeheartedly on that one fact. Women, no matter the kind or the attitude, were meant be be respected fully, and treated in a manner which suited that perception. Throwing a drink at or on his sister did not fall into line with that.

"He threw his drink on you?" His shoulders went back and his tone went down, Alex transforming almost instantly from the sleepy and burdened brother into the corporate attorney that many feared within the court room. Alex looked to the man, and then to the bouncers. "You allowed him to do this? To accost this young lady in your club? I'm afraid that you're either going to need to eject him from the premises , with a permanent ban, or we will have to look into calling the police and pressing charges. Not only against him, but both of you," He singled out the bouncers with a finger that was much less imperious than his sister's, but just as effective, "and the entire establishment. Such gross negligence for the safety of your clientele is really unacceptable, not only to myself, but the city at large."

Part of him was bluffing, part of him wasn't. Dragging the police into this wouldn't be fun for anyone, but when he got going on his lawyer schpeel, people tended to do as he suggested. If they did then it would all be over, Clemmy's reputation could be saved, and they could all end the night in their respective ways. If they didn't, well, that would just make things a tad bit more complicated for everyone. But that was a bridge they'd all cross when they got to it.

"Just some city business, Miss Valentine." In that mode, his business mode, both his father and and his sister were addressed by their titles. It tended to make things easier. Besides, he was pretty sure that pissed or not, wet or not, drunk or not, she would cut him then and there for calling her Clementine, again, in front of the gathering crowd. "But one thing at a time. We really do need to settle the matter of the blatant violence first."

It was amusing, him acting as he was wearing what he was, but it was business, through and through, and the threat that he so carefully veiled, both of them, all of them, were real ones. His sister would either have things set to rights, and be satisfied, or Alexander Valentine would drag this club through the mud, and ruin it in the process.

[Clementine Valentine]

"Yes. He did." And there went a haughty sniff, pouting expression still in full swring. She'd never deny that she was spoiled, it was a fact evident in her attitude towards, well, everything really. She was spoiled and used to being pampered, fawned and fussed over. This brute, though, he was doing no such thing and she did not approve. She knew she could count on Alex to Not Approve, as well, and the disapproval of the District Attorney carried far more weight than that of an airheaded little model.

While she didn't understand what her brother liked about his job, given that it mostly seemed like a lot of boring meetings and paper work and stuff, there was no denying that she was proud of Alex. Proud that her brother was so good at his job that he could go from a lawyer to the District Attorney, and there was a certain smugness in her face when he flipped the proverbial switch between big brother and Mr. Lawyer. The change was practically a tangible one, and Grace had seen it enough to even be able to spot it coming a lot of the time. So when Alex started in with the lawyer voice Grace started with the smug, oh-you-are-in-trouble-now face.

What she didn't approve of was the 'Miss Valentine' that came with it, and despite the witnesses present her nose wrinkled in an obvious expression of distaste. Other people called her Miss Valentine, not Alex. More importantly, she really didn't want to stand here while he did the whole lawyer thing, as fun as it might have been to watch these people squirm. Another time it might have been counted as entertainment, but right now she was boozed up and her fun evening ruined by jerks and worst of all there was still liquid settling into perfectly kept blonde strands and that was something that needed to be rectified post haste. A shower, that was what she needed.

"Maybe," she suggested, drawing out the word as she eyed the bouncers up and down, "Maybe if they throw him out and ban him from coming back, we can consider the matter settled." A decisive nod of the head followed, the words only a little fuzzy around the edges despite the alcohol she'd had thus far. She was, after all, rather practiced at drinking.

[Mulligan]

Even though the crowd around them had stopped, the club continued on. Music played and bass thrummed and people danced the night away, ordering cocktails to quench their thirst and trading phone-numbers and twitters @s like most people did gossip. The radius of their trouble hadn’t completely spread across the expanse of the club, but a whisper of the tension was spiraling out and silence was starting to descend. Trouble in a club was never good, people that pumped up, that drugged and that drunk, they were volatile. Panic could spread like fire, and with the vibe that was spreading outwards from the lot of them, Alex could feel the moment coming at them, like the downward swooping of a pendulum, before everything went wrong.

“You better decide quick.” He pressed, looking out at all the people, a third of which were trying to look back as the wave of discomfort rolled through the crowd. “Or you’re about to have a much bigger problem on your hands.” And that wasn’t just an empty threat on his end. Or a loaded one. Even if the manager of the joint hired the best bouncers in the business, a panicked crowd at that number wouldn’t do anyone any good. The police would be called, investigations would be had and licenses checked. It would be likely that they’d be shut down for a night or two, and that would be profit out the window.

All they had to do instead was to kick this guy out. And with Alex standing there staring them down, and Clementine looking far from pleased, and the crowd, the crowd starting to lose that frenzied energy like ozone that crackled before a storm, what other choice did they have? They didn’t, and without another word the larger of the two was pulling at the stupid young man’s shirt collar and dragging him out of the club. Just like that, with a breath and a sigh, the bubble of tension popped and like people had stopped dancing and instead paid attention to that which was occurring, with the same ripple they went back to what they’d been doing before.

Even though they were in the middle of a very populated area, Alex and Clementine were now very much alone. “You okay?” He asked, shoulders still keeping the straight firmness of a man who needed to be in control, but his voice holding the weariness that the last months had brought to him, and the sort that came with the relief in knowing that if not everything, his most important thing, was going to be okay. “Ready to go home?”

[Clementine Valentine]

There was no recognition in Grace for whatever disturbance they were causing with their little scene. She didn't care if she was ruining anyone else's night because her night was already ruined and that was the only thing that mattered to her. It was just another display of just how self-centered she tended to be, her complete obliviousness to the way more and more people seemed to be turning their attention towards their little stationary clump. Although given her tendecy to ham it up whenever she thought she was getting the least bit of attention that was probably a good thing. It kept her from turning a scene into a Scene, and that was definitely a good thing.

She would have been happy to cause one, though, to pitch a proper fit to get her way, because she'd learned from an early age that a lot of pouting was likely to get her anything she wanted. Her father, her brother, pretty much any man she'd ever dated, all of them could be twisted around to give her what she wanted with the right amount of quivering lower lip and tears. With Alex present such measures were unnecessary, though, and there was more smugness on her part for the way in which the little thorn in her side was unceremoniously hauled off. Served him right, the bastard, putting his booze in her hair. Did he not know how much money went into making it look this good?

"He dumped his drink in my hair," she pouted, because clearly that was the only answer necessary to express how not okay she was. Vain little thing that she was such a thing was practically world-ending. At least there hadn't been anyone important around to see it. "In my hair." A finger was pointed at said hair, as if she needed to make any further emphasis on the statement.

(So that was a no, she was not okay.)

"Yes," was her answer to the second question, slightly less pouty as she tucked one skinny arm around his, but only slightly. "I need to wash this out before it does too much damage." Her looks were her bread and butter, she was totally justified in worrying about what alcohol might do to her hair. "This place is lame, anyway."