2012-08-05 Yoga Abs with Logan

Sometime in the early morning, loud thuds rock Apartment 7A's door. Outside, a short man dressed in lightweight black pants and a plain white tanktop that shows off the thickets of black hair along his arms, chest and back glowers at the poor door as he hammers upon it with a heavy fist. He has three thin, flexible mats - all grey - tucked under his other arm, and a four-pack of beer dangling from his fingers. "Wake your asses up!" Logan hollers after a few knocks, a smirk forming on his lips. "C'mon--yer /late/!" Not that he called ahead or anything.

Curled up on an arm chair, Angela is sitting in a shaft of sunlight coming through the gossimer lace curtain covered by the figure of a man burning alive. Her eyes are focused on the new knit project in her hands. Faces and flames are the trickiest to get - HOLY FIRE BREATH MONKEY BUTTS!!! Angela squeaks at the sudden bang and holler at the door. Her delicate knitting gets dropped, a good dozen stitches falling from the dainty needles as the craftwork tumbles from her lap.

At least Miguel wasn't in a sound sleep. Normally, he would have been, but lately he hasn't really had "normal". Though, now that he thinks about it as he trudges out of his bedroom, even that was anything but normal in the first place. Combing his fingers through his hair, he gets it to some semblance of smoothness as he heads through the living area. At least he's properly dressed, so there's that. "I guess he didn't call you, either," he quips to Angela as he passes her. He opens the door and arches an eyebrow above his sunglasses. "Hi," he says with as much friendliness as his tone normally carries, stepping back to allow the shorter man ingress. The mats are what draw the curious look. This is not going to end anything but awkwardly, he can tell already.

Logan drops the smirk and his hand when the door opens, and as soon as Miguel gives him enough room, he slips by to enter the apartment. Somewhere along the way, he pushes the cans of beer into Miguel's hands so that his own are free for the mats. "Logan," he lowly offers, coming to a stop somewhere near the middle of the room. He quickly glances around, but his eyes ultimately settle on the fallen craftwork. "Mornin'," he adds with a quirked brow. With that, he drops two of the mats, then kneels and carefully rolls out the third. "Yoga," he informs them as he smooths it out.

Angela sits on the chair, feet pulled up high as if a mouse had scurried under her chair and she was frantically trying to perch on the chair's back to get out of the way. She has no idea who this is, until she spies just how calm Miguel is being about this. Slowly, Angela uncurls and steps from the chair. "Yoga," she asks, as if she's never heard the word before. "No, thank you. I prefer ice cream."

When the shorter man enters, Miguel closes the door behind him, that eyebrow staying arched as he looks at the beer. Looks like something from one of those commercials. He just shakes his head briefly and goes to head into the living room. "Miguel," he offers as well, and it strikes him that they never did get around to introductions the other day. It doesn't, though, occur to him that Angela wouldn't recognize the man. Short, muscular, and hairy as a bear--not exactly someone to forget. He also sometimes forgets how much he relies on that accelerated vision of his, too, to give him all of the details that most people miss. "...yoga?" he says, somewhere between suspicious and disbelieving. "That the one with the--the slow chop socky movements? The one that looks like martial arts someone stuck on super-slow?" At least he sets Logan's bear on a chair nearby. IT doesn't occur to him to put it in the refrigerator or anything, but maybe he'll get points for not exactly putting it out of reach.

"That'd be tai chi." Logan doesn't look up to answer Miguel's question, nor at Angela's protest; he just slides over and starts rolling out the next mat. "We'll probably get to that, at some point. Yoga's all stretchin'." His hands gingerly glide across the surface of the second mat to smooth down any errant crinkles, and he carefully pushes it closer to Angela's chair. "It also ain't optional, darlin'," he notes as he moves on to the third.

Angela sighs lightly, glad that she's wearing soft green pajama pants and a dark gray pajama shirt that reads: Innocent Until Proven Guilty. Fuzzy green slippers cover her feet. She pads over to the offered mat and settles to her knees. Like Miguel, it doesn't occur to her to think about putting beer in fridge. It's possible she's never seen a beer can before, save for on TV.

Slipping his hands into his pockets, Miguel just--continues to watch, arching a brow. He has jeans and khakis, and that's it. And he's not about to start going around without them, either. He's considering just outright refusing, but--he looks at Angela and figures protesting won't help. A soft huff of resignation, and he rolls his eyes before stepping closer. "Okay, so, stretching. I guess I can do that.  But why the mats?  Floor ain't good enough or something?" That's said with a bit of a smile curling one corner of his mouth. A sarcastic joke never hurt anything, and it hopefully shows he's at least trying to play along.

Logan draws his hands back to rest on his knees, lifts his head and stares at Miguel with a mild frown. A few moments later, he shakes his head slowly and rebuts, "Why /not/?" as he smooths the last mat out. "The point is t' get your heads clear--achieve inner peace'n'harmony and all that." Once he's done, he brushes his hands across his knees, then stands to take his place on one of the mats. "Failin' that, I figure at least you're /here/ for an hour or two."

Angela, kneeling on the mat, just regards Logan for a full ten seconds before she turns her gaze to Miguel. "Translation, please," she asks of her friend. "And why he's even here trying to get us to yoga?" Because she still doesn't know where she knows this guy from. Clearly, she's not as astute as a spider.

Well, blah. Miguel thought it was funny. And a good question, too. Oh, well. To Angela, he says, "Translation: it's supposed to help with that self-control and inner peace we've all been talking about. It's part of how he said he was going to help you the--the other night." After their little "incident" that led the man to their door in the first place. He then rubs the back of nice neck and goes to the third mat, to stand on it like Logan's standing on his. "Speaking of, how does this little bit of peace and harmony-gathering go?"

As Miguel tries to help Angela out, Logan stretches his right arm out, sets his jaw, and-- --follows the Spider's explanation with an addendum of his own. /Just/ one; he glances over at Angela with a curiously arched brow. "In case your memory still needs joggin'," he quietly explains; the claw then slides back into its housing, leaving a few drops of blood and an angry red gash between his knuckles. "As to the how: I guess you gotta do what I do." And right now, what he's doing is straightening his spine and stretching both arms overhead, fingertips tightly together and pointed to the ceiling. "And breathe--real slow. Real peaceful."
 * SNIKT!*

Angela starts at the sudden display of claws. Her green eyes widen, both in fright and awe and just down right WTH!, and she scrambles to her feet. Hey, Look! She didn't wig out and attack anyone! Progress? Or just the junkie not needing a hit? On her feet, the psychic glances at Miguel a moment, gulps, and then mimics Logan's motions.

At least that got her attention, Miguel notes appreciatively. He mimics Logan's movements as well, stretching arms overhead, fingertips together and pointed upward. At least he refrains from more oh-so witty jokes or the like, for the moment anyway. Right now he's just wondering how the heck this is supposed to do anything but make him feel like an idiot. As long as it's amusing, he supposes.

Logan holds that pose for some time, still save for the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. Though exactly an every day ritual for the man, he's learned a few things about inner peace in his time; he has spent more hours doing Downward Dog in the Xavier Institute's garage than any of his fellow mutant outlaws could reasonably imagine, just to cope with the stresses of acne-ridden students with superpowers. "So," he murmurs after a minute or so, as he widens his stance and stretches his arms - and fingers - all the way out to either side, "how'd you get from up here to hauntin' some alley, the other night?"

"I don't know, really. One minute I was sitting here, about to drink tea and knit Miguel a scarf-" Don't ask what the pattern was. "-the next I was somewhere else. There was a tube, and a TV, and it was telling me rules for some game, and I was..." Angela stops, arms coming in to hugs herself. "I was alone, until they dropped me in some sort of arena. I didn't really recognize anyone expect-" Angela stops and blushes. Robin... wearing nothing but boxers and his mask. "-Well, it doesn't matter. I, ah, managed to get free. I don't know how I ended up in the stuffed animals, but by that point I... I was just too afraid, and I didn't know where I was, so I ran for it."

As for Miguel, his breathing his calm and rhythmic just from not exerting himself. He still feels like a tool, though, but at least he's not doing this alone, so what the hell. He does watch Angela as she answers, though. "I'm sorry you had to go through that," he says, "but it might matter, so who was it you recognized? And would you recognize anyone else if you saw them?" He can't really help but latch onto the mystery surrounding her disappearance. It might not be the last time it happens, after all, and next time, it might end up far worse.

Logan swallows the beginnings of a growl as Angela describes her experience; inner peace, and all that. "An' they tinkered with your powers?" he wonders, turning his head towards Angela. "Made 'em run outta control?" Her form is all wrong, but remembered trauma is a pretty good excuse; he fights the urge to comment.

Angela glances at Miguel first, having to clear her throat. "Well, I recognized... Robin?" Her voice sounds uncertain, and not wanting to be asked any more than that. "I don't know if I'd recognize anyone else, but I will try," she offers, smiling weakly. Green eyes turn to Logan. "No, I don't think so. They seemed to know what I could do; they called me a nightmare inducer... Phobia." She shutters faintly, moving to sit down. Yeah, not wanting to do yoga it seems. "They just.. played on the fact that they had kept me alone, like they know that would do it. When I was released, I just... lashed out." And enjoyed it, but she won't say that out loud.

Well, since she stopped, Miguel figures he can stop, too, though he doesn't sit down. He puts his hands on his hips, looking between Logan and Angela, then he says, "Sounds like they knew her. Did their research.  Whether they dug around her head or had someone follow her, or whatever." He arches that brow again, exhaling softly in a little bit of irritation at the situation. At the fact that someone would do all of that--apparently just for /fun/.

"Sounds like," Logan grimly agrees in his still-maintained Warrior pose. "Lotta sick people in the world. Friend'a mine, he disappeared for a little while too, a couple weeks back." He glances to Miguel, then to Angela, and then tilts his head back and draws his right leg up along his left until his foot is planted lightly against his knee. "Still don't know the whole story there." A beat passes as he raises his arms again. "Didn't say /stop/, either," he gently notes.

Angela looks up at Logan, sighs, then stands again. She moves to copy what he's doing, nearly falling a few times before she gets it like less than half way. She falls quiet now, a light pout on her face.

Guess he has to continue, too. Miguel does his best to copy the pose, his spider-esque agility letting him do it without falling over, but he doesn't display any of the experience or grace in such a pose as Logan does. He looks like what he is--someone who has no idea what the hell he's really doing it, trying it for the sake of not being that one jerk. Right foot, back of left knee, hands still in the air--it's a good thing no one else he knows can see him like this.

As Angela and Miguel work to adopt his posture, Logan just remains still, keeping an eye on the pair of them--just to be sure. Breathe in, breathe out. In. Out. In-- His gaze settles on Angela's struggle for balance, and five seconds into the posture, he relaxes and heads for the abandoned beer, shaking his head the whole way. "Alright, alright," he murmurs, a hint of mirth in his voice. "Good enough--for /now/." He snaps cans off of the rings, tosses one each to Angela and Miggy, then pops the third; the last, he slides into his pocket. "Breakfast time," is the best he can do for a toast.

Angela fumbles to catch the beer can, managing it with the can upside down. She looks at it oddly, a frown on her face. Confused villain-trying-to-save-herself is confused. She looks up at Logan. "Breakfast," she asks him, eye immediately going to Miguel. It seems every time she has a question, the young man is the first one she looks at.

Relaxation time. Miguel can get behind that. He gets himself out of the ridiculous posture and starts to head to the kitchen for a drink of water when the shorter man catches his attention. Catching the beer, he looks at it curiously, then looks back to Logan. "You know, we have actual--food. Bacon, eggs, that kind of thing.  If you want, I can try and whip something a little more--substantial--up." His beer can is then opened and carefully sniffed--and the way he wrinkles his nose makes it more than clear just how tasty he /doesn't/ find the liquid therein.

By the time Miguel makes his generous offer, Logan's beer is half empty--and the question mostly just causes him to look at the Spider funny; he doesn't actually lower the can until it's nearly drained. "Whatever floats it for ya," he ambivalently replies before tossing the rest of the beer back. Good thing he's got one his pocket.

Seeing Miguel wrinkle his nose, Angela moves to set the beer down on the table. "I would rather have the eggs," she says softly, beer upside down on the table. It seems to occur to her, for she reaches out to right the can quickly. She looks at Logan again, then Miguel, and just looks lost.

"Hey, I'm trying to be nice, since you're a guest, and all," Miguel says as he heads into the kitchen, to the refrigerator. "I mean, not everyone would take the time to try and help, and it's appreciated, so what the hell." He brings out eggs and bacon, setting them on the counter. Since it's just him and Angela, he's had to figure out how to make some food. A chef he is still very much not, but he's got some of the basics down--through trial and error, but still.

"Yeah, I'm a regular saint," Logan dryly replies as he cracks his second can. "Don't sweat it too much; I ain't keepin' a tab." He gestures towards Angela - and her abandoned beer - with his own can, the ghost of a smirk on his lips. "They got canned wine too, darlin', but I imagine it wouldn't be any more to your taste."

Angela shakes her head at the offer, stepping away from the can and toward her fallen craft project. Her face is wary of the liquid and how Logan chugs it so quickly. "Ah, no thank you. I dislike alcohol, in general."

Cookware brought out and properly sprayed with Pam cooking spray--Miguel had learned /that/ one the hard way, too--and everything's started. Eggs cracked into a bowl and whipped quickly as bacon is set to cook--he's using both whole packages; Logan doesn't look any less active than he is, so he's pretty sure the man can pack away the food. And who'd really turn down a mountain of bacon? "Got'a say, I'm not exactly a fan of the stuff, myself. Some people can hold theirs, others--can't," he says as he flips the bacon. Been around too many alcoholics who liked to drink then talk with their fists.

"Smart," he murmurs, the can crumpling slightly in his hand. He glances around himself, then starts backing towards the sofa; it creaks once he settles into it. "Ain't exactly the best habit." A moment or two of drinking and Miguel-watching later, he tosses his emptied can towards where he thinks the trash can is.

Where does Miguel keep the trash can? Angela hasn't a clue. She doesn't do any housework, ever. Posh British noble. Collecting her knitting, Angela frown and sits to make repairs on the macabre looking fabric.

The trash can is nudged out into the open so the beer can will sail right into it. Miguel decides that's probably a better place for it, anyway. He'd kept it more hidden under the counter, but having it out in the open /would/ make it easier. "No, it's not," he agrees as he turns his attention back to the stove, pouring the whipped eggs onto the pan before checking on the bacon again. "For me it was my father--same story you've heard a dozen times before." Drunken father--not a lot of ways that story could exactly end, and he knows it, so there's no need to go into the sordid details.

"Once or twice," Logan gruffly agrees. "Plenty'a sad father stories in the world, that's for sure." Just ask Doug Adelbert's son. That, of course, is his cue to reach for Miguel's already opened can; he can't in good conscious let a perfectly good beer go to waste, after all.

With a frustrated sigh, Angela yanks the needles from her work and starts to rewind the gossimer white yarn onto its ball. She glances up at Logan and he reaches for yet another beer. A frown sits on her face. "What are you drinking, anyway," she snips haughtily.

"It's beer," answers Miguel, working a spatula for the eggs and tongs for the bacon both at the same time. "It's actually a pretty common thing; lot of people seem to like it." Eggs don't exactly take long to scramble, especially by someone who's done this a few times already, so they're already getting ready. They may not be perfect, but they'll be good enough. In just a few minutes, three plates will be brought out--two with heaping helpings of bacon and scrambled eggs, one with a more "normal" amount. Of course, there are forks and napkins on each.

Logan squints at Angela like she's just grown a second head and /it/ asked him that question. He flicks his eyes down to the can to study its outside, then adds, "Keystone," to Miguel's answer. "Apparently." He holds it at arms length to squint at the label once more, then sips from it with a shrug. He vaguely gestures towards the can once he lowers it. "Hope worryin' over that ain't throwin' you too far off your game..."

Angela shakes her head and sets her knitting aside for now, moving to sit on the floor at the coffee table to eat. It's clear that she doesn't fully understand the mutant, for she refrains from commenting. Instead, she eyes the plant Miguel sets before her, never has she reached to take a plate and she's not about to start now!, and seems to chirp, "Must you /always/ serve me so much?"

"Tell you what," Miguel quips as he goes to hand Logan his plate, "you get in the kitchen and make something, and you can serve /me/ for a change." While obviously a joke, it's also not like he's not sort of challenging her. Sort of. He also doesn't expect her to take him up on it, either. "You'll have to forgive her," he says to Logan with a lopsided grin, "she's not used to hob-nobbing with us lower-crust people."

With (at least) two beers already in him, Logan takes this one a little slower, sipping steadily from it as he watches Angela instead of guzzling the alcohol straight down. "Don't tell me you do /all/ the cooking," he remarks when his plate is delivered. He glances between the two, then sits back and mutters, "Of /course/ you do. Cleanin' too?" A beat passes as he peers at the aristocrat and balances the plate on his knee. "Hell of a setup; must be nice, eh?" The question is /mostly/ innocent, but there's a bit of an edge to his voice.

Miguel's joke earns him a sneering sort of pout, as if the very notion was disgusting. She sits up, straight backed now, chin parallel to the floor, and looks for a napkin. She sighs audibly and levels a quirked brow at Miguel. The motion is clear: How's a lady supposed to eat with out a napkin on her lap? At Logan's 'barb', the lady turns her green gaze to him. "However do you mean, Mr. Logan? Miguel cooks breakfast. I hire help to do the rest," she retorts, hands folded in her lap, waiting.

On his way back to grab his own plate, Miguel catches her waiting and stops, arching a brow. It finally dawns on him what the hell she's waiting /for/. "Oh, /hell/ no," he says, then points at her plate. "You have a napkin, and you're older than five. I'll cook breakfast, but if you think I'm putting the stupid thing on your lap for you, you've got another think coming." And with that he turns back to retrieve his own plate and take it to the couch.

A REALLY LONG TIME AGO "Oh, /do/ hurry, I beg of you," young James Howlett whines as a team of maids carefully cuts his steak into bite sized pieces, butters his bread, and blows on his hot cider. His plate is resting on a tray, and the tray is resting in his lap; he's sitting up in a ridiculously frilly bed. "I'm beginning to feel faint, and my tummy aches ever so much..." NOW At the mention of hired help, Logan pauses mid-sip to stare at Angela, caught somewhere between incredulity, exasperation and a dim sense of empathy. That stare is promptly /broken/ when Miguel rebuffs her; after barking out a laugh, he looks to his food and grunts, "Guess that answers /that/," as he starts loading his fork with eggs. "You gotta know how t' make /somethin'/ for yourself, though--toast? An egg? Somethin'." He takes the bite and promptly washes it down with a swig of beer; at least he keeps his mouth shut while he chews.

Angela narrows her eyes at Miguel, then Logan. What an insult! Her hand snakes out, grabs her napkin, and with a snap she flicks it to her lap. The world could end with the atrocities of manners she is being put through! For REALS! Logan's laughter at her makes it worse, and her expression falls to a flicker of a sneer. Her eyes flicker with a sinister light. "It is improper," Angela hisses, hands now moving for her fork.

"Improper..." Miguel repeats in a mutter, grabbing his plate from the counter and taking it back to the couch. He crosses his legs, right ankle on left knee, to serve as a sort of table. At least he doesn't chew with his mouth open, either, so there's that. "I've tried to get her to do /something/ in the kitchen," he says between bites, "but we usually end up ordering take-out. Though, considering some of the places around here, I can't complain /too/ much." That Chinese place a few blocks away is one of his favorites, as she knows.

"Yeah, workin' that toaster is /hell/," Logan 'agrees' once he's swallowed. He looks between the two, then shakes his head and tosses half a strip of bacon into his mouth and mutters, "Christ," around the crunching sounds; he makes sure to keep his head low, for the sake of proper manners. "Parents must've invented the Internet or somethin'--" He swallows, then looks over at Miguel. "Guess you might not need the yoga so much, you're /that/ patient."

Angela flicks a glance at Logan, eyes glimmer slightly, before she very daintily moves to cut -- yes, /cut/ -- a nibble of scrambled eggs. "My /mother/ is the Lady Hawkins," she retorts quite nobly. No words about her father, clearly, for she puts the eggs into her mouth. Will not chew and speak at same time.

"Hey, to be fair," says Miguel, holding up his fork, "toasters aren't as easy to operate as you'd like to think. I killed the first one." And no, he doesn't elaborate. It's not a story he really likes to tell. "But in my defense, I'd never seen one before, much less used one. And it's not patience, really, as much as responsibility, I think." And with that, he turns back to his food, spearing a large quantity of the eggs and popping it into his mouth, followed by a generous piece of bacon. Responsibility to make himself /be/ patient enough with her, or at lest try to, so she can work through her admittedly many and varied issues. Responsibility nonetheless.

Logan begins to open his mouth, and then just stares at Miguel. "Sure," he decides after a few seconds and a sip of beer. "'Never seen one'." He starts to throw more bacon into his mouth, but he winds up finishing the beer and tossing it into the bin instead. "Responsibility's all well'n good," he murmurs as he scoops up a forkful of eggs, "but--" He glances at Angela as she daintily breaks her fast. He doesn't say anything more, he just shoots Miguel a compassionate look; wrangling a spoiled rich psychic fear-monger is /quite/ the responsibility.

"He probably built one that ran on some weird space technology that could toast bread, make tea, and offer your choice of flavored crumpets," Angela remarks, eyes on her food. "Which means our simple little bread in, toast out version that the cooks use were new to him. Just like the phone, the television...." She puts another dainty bite in her mouth, and looks about the table as she chews. Only when she's swallowed does she look over to Miguel. "No juice?"

"Close enough," says Miguel. It's kind of hard to explain that he had a holographic representation of the artificial intelligence running his penthouse that dealt with all of that for him, up to and including dealing with food, getting clean clothes, and everything else. Being a literal anachronism isn't exactly something easy to explain over breakfast. At Angela's request, he arches a brow at her. "Say 'please'," he tells her, then looks over to Logan. Even through his sunglasses, it can be seen that it's something of a "see what I deal with when she's not going crazy and infesting people's minds" kind of look.

((Fade Out))