Participants:
| Scene Title | SWM LF Feminist |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Amadeus makes first impressions on his father's roommate. |
| Date | August 19, 2010 |
Bella and Deckard's Apartment in Chelsea
He's seen Bella before, but never quite found the apartment until now. Amadeus' van is parked outside, but he's leaning against the wall next to the apartment entrance with a joint in his mouth, a black bat bag on his back with the strap over his black AC/DC shirt, just waiting. He's actually reading a book for once, after unknowingly meeting the author, the first book in the series by Savannah Burton, about extremists on both sides of the Evolved issue. "Fuck, bangable chicks really can write… does get a little better."
Bella has had to walk five blocks because the bus does not venture all the way out to where she lives. It's still light out, is the only reason she's willing to risk it in this neighborhood, but she's not driving her car anymore. Not only are its speed and sleekness precisely wrong for her new 'below the radar' lifestyle, but she can't sit in the driver's seat without imagining that fingers might wrap around her neck from behind at any moment. Not good for keeping your head on the highway…
She's dressed slacks and a button down blouse of pale yellow, her hair tied back into a very practical ponytail, very necessary considering how long its been since she's made time to see a hairdresser. She has a paper bag in each hand and a purse over her shoulder, the former being brown and emblazoned with the Whole Foods logo. Someone has been out grocery shopping.
As the form of this jay-smoking loiterer resolves into something like detail, Bella's approach slows somewhat. Much as the acrid waft of cannabis naturally puts her at ease, the smell does not, out on the streets, necessarily indicate the same free-thinking or at least harmless nature of its source as it does on a college campus. But he is reading. She approaches with a caution she hopes does not translate into the visual, trying to see just what he is reading. She dearly hopes it's 'To the Lighthouse' or even 'Fight Club'. Just as long as he's not reading 'Mein Kampf' or something.
Amadeus' book is called The Amplified, a very popular recent political book, despite him not looking as if he cares anything about politics. He looks up from the book, immediately locking his eyes with her's as he grins. "He sweet cheeks. So you're my dear ol' dad's woman, 'eh? Very nice."
Bella's blue gaze is quite capable of turning icy, and given this ample chance to frost over, it does. The expression she gives Amadeus is withering, lacking all tolerance. "If you intend to hang around this building giving passersby shit all day," she replies, crisply, "I cordially invite you to go fuck yourself."
"You sure you're my dad's chick?" Amadeus asks as he pushes off the wall, and despite her demeanor, he offers a hand. "Amadeus Deckard. And you're…?" he asks, leaving the question in the air as he watches her, grinning in amusement.
"I'm sure I'm no one's but my own," Bella replies, thinly. She is not in the mood to be made light of by some two bit punk who thinks she knows his father… wait what? Amadeus who? Bella's gaze goes from chilly to blank and there is a good three second pause in which the redhead searches this boy's face for signs of veracity, for tell-tale markers of Deckard genetics, the traces of a gamete that dared to realize its dream of zygotic union.
The offered hand receives not a shake, but a paper bag full of groceries. The dark neck of a wine bottle peeks up from the dark interior, immediately identifiable. "You can fill me in as we carry these up," she says, which one can guess is an invite at least past the first set of doors, "and don't be a flippant little shit, or I will push you down the stairs."
"I'm getting lots of threats of violence from women this week." Amadeus realizes as he starts heading inside so he can start the march upstairs with her. "I've got a copy of the paternity test in my bat bag, and a picture of Flint from when he was around my age. Didn't mean to offend or anything, that's just how I talk."
"No, you don't mean to offend," Bella says, keying through the front doors and starting the trek up the stairs, eyes ahead, voice lifted so that, even though she forges ahead of him, he'll be able to hear him, "you mean to intimidate. To assert your sexual superiority. You may not even know you mean it, but you mean it." She glances over her shoulder at Amadeus as she reaches the second floor landing, "I'm your father's roommate. We have a certain history, but that's his to tell."
Bella starts up the second flight of stairs. "What are you doing here? Have you spoken with Flint yet?"
"Yeah, he freaked out and went to the bathroom to throw up I guess. I came here to see you. Trying to figure out why he's surrounded by hot classy chicks, since as far as I can see, he's a total fuckin' loser." As if Amadeus has much room to talk, the smell of pot trailing behind him as they ascend the stairs. "And hey, aren't you like, putting your sexual stuff all over me too, by saying I'm doing it to you?" he asks, as he tries to use his… logic, to counter a trained psychologist's argument.
Bella closes her eyes, begging an absent God for patience. This little gesture, made for no one, causes her to stumble on the last step and fall forward, hand reaching out for the bannister in a mad grab. She finds a grip and finds herself swung around, hip thumping against the second floor landing. She looks disgruntled, flustered, quite literally taken off balance, her other arm outstretched to protect her bag from damage. Bella huffs and struggles to her feet, looking a little flushed. She glowers at Amadeus, painting him guilty for whatever she imagines he may be thinking, what he might think to say. Mostly recovered, she extends a ladylike hand, snaps her fingers. "Give me a hit," she says, "I'm much too sober for this whole situation."
"I love you." is all Amadeus says when she asks for a hit, and he offers her the joint from his mouth inbetween two fingers. "I've got a ton of them, keep it. I grow it myself." Though even after that, he's moving next to her so he can place a hand on her back. "Come on. You're smart, I get it already, you don't gotta prove anything. Need some help?"
Bella tokes like a pro. This isn't some sort of 'cool girl' posturing. She exhales before inhale and holds the smoke in for a good long time, giving the barest of coughs after expelling a faint cloud, most of the particulates of the smoke having settled (unhealthily) in her lungs. Not as good for you as a vaporizer, but man if this doesn't get you high fast. She offers the joint back out of pure instinct, trying to maintain rotation, but as Amadeus makes it a gift she frowns, then nods, sticking the roach end into the corner of her mouth and bogarting the jay.
Amadeus' hand is lightly slapped. "None of that shit," she states, unconditionally, "I clearly still have to prove to you that I don't put up with masculinist bullshit. Do me a favor - imagine me as your father's up tight male roommate, okay? I'd like to skip the whole Oedipal awkwardness."
"You are seriously up tight. Just 'cause I try to help you doesn't mean I'm like, trying to… do whatever you think I'm trying to do." Amadeus grunts and starts walking again, leaving her to her own devices as he occasionally looks back, just to make sure she's fine. "The hell does this have to do with dinosaurs, anyway?"
Bella actually laughs at this. Dinosaurs? "I'm glossing Freud. You know, kill your father, fuck your mother? Never mind. It was a bad joke," Bella says, shaking her head and stopping once she reaches the door, "Back here," she says, gesturing Amadeus back with the joint, held again between thumb and forefinger as she takes another hit. Or tries. But the ember has gone out. "Fuck. I need another light," she extends the jay, waiting for Amadeus to comply, "And just give me a little time to adjust. Being called sweet cheeks by what I can only assume is the bastard son of my roommate is, you have to understand, not something I had written in my day planner."
"Sorry, I saw you before, from behind. Couldn't help the nickname." Amadeus reaches into his pocket for a rather expensive looking gold lighter, then holds it up to re-light her joint. "And man, you're fuckin' smart, quoting nazis and stuff." He waits for her at the door, crossing his arms with the book still in one hand. "I don't hate women or anything, I actually like smart chicks, for all the ten seconds they'll let me talk to 'em."
"Freud was a Jew, not a Nazi," Bella corrects, "Which is… almost like the opposite of a Nazi, I guess. At least from a Nazi's point of view…" This is a musing she would not have offered out loud if it weren't for the high resin Bob Hope she just puffed. She bogarts the joint again and slides her key into the door lock, turning and pushing in. Into her home. She holds the door for Amadeus, like a proper gentleman. "It's not the straight woman haters that are the problem," she avers, "it's the endemic sexism. But I'm willing to recognize a good faith effort. If I recognize that one is being made."
"How's it sexist to wanna help a chick?" Amadeus almost walks in, then looks to her in apparent confusion as she holds the door. He has a look that almost asks 'Are you testing me'. "Wait, if I walk in first, is that sexist? Is this a test to see if I'll hold the door?" He's apparently completely missing the point.
"It's sexist to assume a woman requires help. And it's not the help itself, even, but the way it's offered and how it's framed and…" Bella gives a huff, "Look, you should just read the Feminine Mystique. Whenever you're finished with… what was that? 'The Amplified'," she frowns, "I've heard of that. How did I hear about that? New York Times Book Review? What's it about?" She jerks her head in the direction of 'inside'. "It's a test to see how long it will take for me to lose patience and just close the door in your face. Get your ass inside."
"It must be really easy to piss you off during sex." Amadeus says before finally heading inside, looking down at his book. "A friend keeps bugging me to read books, so I got this popular one. It's like, about extremes on both sides of the whole Evolved thing, and how both sides kinda suck."
Bella smirks a little at this. "Statistically," she states, "men in relationships with feminists have a more satisfying sex life." Which is true, by the way. This is not one of those 90 percent of statistics that are made up on the spot. She lets the door glide shut behind them and bears her bag into the kitchen, motioning for Amadeus to follow, setting the joint in the counter, letting it go out again. Later, later. "Oh yes, I did read about that. One of those sci-fi crossover hits, right?" She doesn't sound quite dismissive. Just… distant.
"I'm not really a book reader, but this woman talked me into giving the series a chance. Met her outside of a library." Amadeus holds the book up and points to the picture on the back. "Looks exactly like her." But on the subject of feminist sex, his brows go up in a bit of intrigue. "You serious? How the hell's that work? I mean, I don't think I'm gonna find out. If I piss you off this much, no way I'll stand a chance with any others."
"Feminists are much more likely to understand their bodies. They are, on average, more active participants and more sexually adventurous, as well as simply more communicative and less ashamed about their desires," Bella rattles off, being quite well informed on the matter, it seems, quite prepared to level these points against the enemies of equality, and this misperceptions of feminist frigidity. Quite the crusader, her. She glances over her shoulder to peruse the picture. "Photogenic," is her comment, as she starts to unload the bags. Meat in paper wrapping. Eggs. Milk. Asparagus.
"Shit, dude, don't dangle a freakin' fish in front of a cat with no teeth." Amadeus apparently greatly approves of Bella's informative explanation of feminists, sitting his book down on the table as he heads into the kitchen with her. "My fuckin' brain can't take anymore fish dangling, here," He reaches back into his bat bag, then pulls out a thick folder with Deckard's 20+ year old picture attached. It's a copy. "Paternity test."
Bella is stowing things in their places, the kitchen being firmly her domain, though really only by default considering her cohabitant's utter disinterest in the culinary. The meat goes in the fridge, with good faith in the electricity staying on at least long enough for her to cook something tonight, along with the milk which, if it goes bad… so be it. It's really only there because Bella thinks a home without milk is hardly a home. Or maybe a home for vegans. If that even counts.
"Keep it," Bella says, smiling wanly over her shoulder, "I don't think you're lying, and if you are, then points to you for running a good con. At least he believes you, assuming the vomiting story is true. May I ask how old you are?"
"Hey, I haven't run a con in… ten hours at least. A guy's gotta get a hotel room somehow." Amadeus slips the folder and picture back into his bag, then leans against the wall of the kitchen. "Twenty-four. Spent three of those years in prison, I just got out, but the blizzard kept me from finding Flint sooner. Lost my ability and everything, but hearing the thoughts of cats sucks, I don't ever want it to come back again."
"I'm sure he does," Bella says, referring to the comment about a man and his need for a room. She slides over to the edge of the counter, leaning in to pluck a big, hardcover, badly stained copy of the Joy of Cooking she was bequeathed by her mother. She flips it open and scans, murmuring. "Lamb lamb lamb lllobster, too far… um… llllamb. Here we are!" She glances up at Amadeus, "Feline telepathy? Purely passive or could you actually try and herd cats?"
"I spent a lot of time in cat heads, I became a cat, like, I had my own smarts but if I was a cat. I spent so much time doing that it gave me cravings and stuff, and I kinda understand how cats work. They're fuckin' dicks. I could control it, kinda, but I couldn't keep 'em out of my head either." Amadeus leans on the counter, shaking his head. "Sometimes I see some cat food, or a trash can, and my mouth fuckin' waters."
Bella is listening, she promises. She's just also getting things ready for dinner. Reading ingredients in a low voice and then zooming about the kitchen to acquire them, ordering them in a staggered line next to the oven. "I'm not just saying this, Amadeus. It was Amadeus, right?" she casts him a look, "I think that's fascinating. I'm a psychologist. Psychiatrist, actually," she spent those years in med school for a reason, dammit, "and one of my chief interests is the effect of Evolved abilities on the psyches of their possessors."
"Oh, so that's why you're all smart and stuff." Amadeus intelligently determines, watching her go back and foward and move things around as he stays in his comfortable little spot against the wall. "The cat stuff in my head didn't go away with my ability, I think it changed me a little. I mean, I can eat all the stuff cats eat and not really feel sick. Chewing up a mouse sounds fucking delicious, and if they weren't like, diseased, there's a chance I'd probably eat the fuckers. And then people and their damned pets. I might not understand cats anymore, but I can tell people are totally fuckin' misreading what their cats are thinking.
He pauses, trying to find a way to articulate this. "You know how you look at a person, and you know what they're thinking 'cause of what they're doin' with their face? I'm like that with cats a lot, but it's like, the way they're moving, what their tails are doin', ears, eyes, it's all those little things. People are so fuckin' dumb, most cats just wanna own you, and everything around them, they're the most greedy fuckers on the planet."
"Cook them," Bella says, "the mice, that is. When you're done with that and with the Feminine Mystique, you should pick up 'Never Cry Wolf'. The man lives off small rodents in Alaska for months. Quite remarkable really." Just full of fun facts, this one. "I've never trusted cats, but I've always respected their aloofness. They don't pretend like they're not emotional parasites, the way dogs do. Dogs love you, which is just dishonesty, when it comes down to it."
"Hey, dogs are great! But I've never been in a dog's head, and they act completely different from cats. But I think their tails work the same sometimes, like when a cat holds its tail down, it's not happy or it's really uncomfortable." Amadeus doesn't comment on mouse cooking… maybe he'll try it one day. "So, other than the book, how does a guy like me get into a feminist's pants?"
"Are we talking feminists in general, or a particular feminist?" Bella inquires, dryly. She glances up at the over clock, which is flashing 12:00 - 12:00 - 12:00 and thus of no possible use. "I don't know exactly when Flint will be getting back, and rude as this may be, I'd rather you not be here when he does. Ambush him at the door if you like, but I don't want to have been party to a home-ground encounter. If he invites you up himself, then I'd be happy to invite you to dinner. But I'm not going to interfere with that part of his life," her lips prick in a small smile, "I've got my hands full with my current realms of interference."
"You're the only feminist I know, so I guess in general? Not to say that I wouldn't totally fuckin' bang you if I had the chance, but let's get real here." Amadeus has very realistic expectations! He knows when he's out of his league, most of the time.
Aw, he's sweet. Sort of. "I'll take that for what part of it was a compliment," Bella says, "most if it, I'm guessing, judging from your general diction. If you want to land a feminist… the minimum prerequisite is respect. Not chivalry, though some people can pull that off. Treatment as an equal, recognition of agency, personal power, personal choice. It's harder to do than you might think, too. Most men have trouble with it, honestly. God knows, most women have a hard time treating themselves that way."
"So no holding doors and I've gotta let them be on top, got it." Amadeus firmly nods at his interpretation of what she's telling him to do, then just grins and asks, "Am I like, the worst fuckin' guy you've ever met?"
Bella lifts her gaze to the ceiling, tapping her chin as if she really needs to think about this. As if she's comparing him to other worst examples of his sex. When her gaze levels on him again, she's smiling. "Not even close," she says, "but you have some pretty awful exes to compete with so, don't feel bad."
"I feel a little better about the feminist thing, then. Fuck, I didn't know my whole… role was so complicated. But I'm totally gonna find a feminist, I've gotta like… experience this." Amadeus sighs and starts headin gback out to grab his book. "Guess I should go. Can I get your number?"
Bella considers the question again, though this time less theatrically, and more seriously. Should she give him her number. "Sure," she says, at length, "that," she points to the joint sitting on the counter, "Was good stuff. I'd be interested in being a more steady customer. Unless Flint would find it uncomfortable."
"Yeah, sure, I could use the cash. I grow it in lots of different places, I'm not dumb enough to have a whole pot garden. You grow pot in plain sight, like overgrown lots and stuff, and no one turns a head." Amadeus explains, then pulls out a fresh one and sits it next to the one she took her first drags of. He also grabs his book finally. He's apparently smart when it comes to things that don't involve, well, books. "You can have that one more for the road. And if you've got any feminist friends, pass me their numbers some time."
Bella's brows arch but she gives a slight nod. "I'll see what I can do for you," she says, "Pleasure meeting you, Amadeus. I hope to see you again soon." This is not a pure platitude either. If nothing else, it was good weed.