|Summary||Jeremy walks in on Tiffany stealing boxes for her move, sort of lectures her for seeing Richard's peen, and then (and this part is weird and hard to follow) doesn't give her a promotion.|
| The front entrance to X-Factor Solutions has been kept meticulously clean, with neat white walls and a floor that's polished regularly by a tiny robotic housekeeper (when it's not broken down). Despite that, the place looks run down. A crack runs from one corner of the ceiling nearly to the center light fixture, and several of the floor tiles have chipped corners. A pair of red vinyl wing chairs sit to one side just in front of a pair of doors that lead to a small gym and a conference room. The receptionist's desk, which is more often unmanned than not, is a tall, black thing with scuff marks suggesting it was bought used. Even the old-fashioned bell resting atop it with a 'ring for service' sign is dented, and the door behind that opens into the staff lounge hangs a little crooked on its hinge.
This is a building that's seen more than a few long years; the only new thing about it is the hand-painted sign across the storefront's glass, declaring in neat black lettering, 'X-FACTOR SOLUTIONS', and below that, 'Mutants for hire.'|
| It is a winter day. The weather is cold and flurrying.|
The question of what Jeremy is doing here today may go unanswered, because it doesn't look like he can possibly be that work-productive. He is wearing an Xavier's T-shirt circa like ten years ago, a schlubby pair of dark grey sweatpants, and he's in his socks. His shoes are probably somewhere. He's been here all day. When he emerges from the offices to thump down the stairs, it is running a hand through the long fluff of his hair. He looks a bit scruffy like maybe he needs to shave still. It's a little ridiculous. The snowbursts puffing past the windows make him sigh a little as he glances that way from the stairs.
A cat scuttles past the base of the stairs and disappears into another part of the building.
The sound of Jeremy coming down the steps makes Tiffany's heart jump for a moment. She might be doing something she's not supposed. Both of her hands go into the air as she quickly tries to THINK.
Standing between two sets of /borrowed/ bankers boxes, the young woman wills forth an air of causality as she turns on her heel to face the stairs. A wayward strand of dark hair flutters down across her eye and lip. She blows at it in vain and then finally swats it away before quickly looking casual again. "What are you doing here," she states. Casually. Blinking. Her hand goes to her hip.
Jeremy glances after the darting cat with a faintly startled blink, like, what the hell? I don't even have a cat. He scratches at the line of his jaw with blunted nails as he thumps down a few more stairs. "I think that's my line," he says. "I mean, this is kind of my operation." His eye skips to the potentially misappropriated boxes and then back to Tiffany's super casual expression and stance.
“I’m astral projecting,” Tiffany explains coolly. She extends an arm in a relaxed gesture meant to showcase the room. Vanna White-style. “I’m not here.” She then leans on one of the boxes and it moves a little.
Jeremy thumps the rest of the down the stairs. His eye flicks down to the box and then back up to her again. "So if I center an explosion, say ... right where you're standing, it won't hurt you, 'cause you're not there, right?"
"I wouldn't," Tiffany narrows her eyes daringly, "You might cause serious structural damage to the building." She stops touching the box. It moved again.
<FS3> Jeremy rolls Dad Jokes: Success. (2 1 7 1 2 2 5 3)
"I'm pretty sure," Jeremy says, ambling across the room in a scuffing slide on his socks -- and doesn't THAT look silly. "--that nothing's gonna happen to the building from a little air pocket boom." He fetches up directly in front of her, tipping his head to one side, and then adds, "But you're right. Better safe than sorry." The next thing he tries to do is boop her nose, like, with his finger, because he is an embarrassing dad who takes unfortunate liberties.
Expression going stoic as she observes Jeremy’s approach, Tiffany manages to stay stone-faced during and after Jeremy taps her nose. Okay, so she’s really here. But maybe she’s not! “Okay, you busted me.” She very lazily flaps some of the fabric of her shirt past her shoulder just a little bit, baring it to the world. She turns to look straight at Jeremy from over said shoulder seductively, “This is a dream.”
"Kiddo," Jeremy says. Whether it's how he would respond in a dream or not, his eyebrows speak some sardonicism. He settles his weight back on the heels of his socks, his hands shrugging into the pockets of his sweatpants. "So if this is a dream, it probably wouldn't be a good time to take you aside about ogling Rich and get that over with."
"Probably not," Tiffany agrees dryly. ... "In Tiffany's defense, he does take super long showers and not everybody has all the time in the world to wait." ... "I'm your subconscious."
"I always knew my subconscious was full of shit," Jeremy says with a wide smile. "Just watch it, okay? We don't want people on our team using their powers against each other. Privacy's a thing. I'm not going to take extreme action here. But I can't have you checking out everyone's gorgeous naked body just 'cause."
Tiffany's mouth presses into a smirk, which she attempts to subdue. "Fine. I'm sorry. I hope he isn't too traumatized." She just won't do it while visible. "Hey! Do you like, have car?" Her voice goes up an octave.
"I'm pretty sure he has lived through people seeing him naked before," Jeremy says with a poker-faced blandness. "Like I said: just watch it." His eyebrows rise and then drop in a kind of facial shrug, and he says, "And that'd be a nope. No car."
Pressing her mouth into a flat slant, Tiffany almost glances down to the boxes around her-- but doesn't. "Okay." Is she saying okay to watching it? Or to him not having a car? She blinks.
Cat feet can be heard pitter-patting behind them and up the stairs.
"Basically all of my capital went into this joint, so." Jeremy glances aside toward the stairs, and snorts a little, eyebrows growing somewhat more quizzical. He doesn't -- yet -- ask about the cat. "Most people don't spend a lot of time hanging around the office on Saturday, y'know."
"I do not that," Tiffany admits quietly. That's why she's here on this day. "What's ah-" Her eyes finally wander to the state of Jeremy and his dishevelment, "What's goin' on here. This Saturday. Today."
"My roommates turned the apartment into a pre-pre St. Patty's shitshow so I figured I'd get a head start on payroll," Jeremy says with a laugh on his breath. He smears his hand over his face as if to chase away some incipient aggravation before it can form in his expression. "Other than that it's been pretty quiet. I've got a lead to follow up on an out of town job in Texas but transport to Texas would be a hell of a thing, and it might turn out to be a scam."
“Oh, I thought that when you always mention your roommates, it was just some joke and you meant your kids,” Tiffany’s eyes widen awkwardly. “Texas, huh? Is it for those people that want to hold your boyfriend over a Bunsen burner, again?”
"Nope," Jeremy says. "Actual roommates. My kid's in California." His lips purse slightly and he shakes his head. He hesitates for just a moment. "He's-- not actually my boyfriend," because he's got a bridge over in Brooklyn he'd like to sell you, and, "--but uh, no. Completely different set of out of towners. No Bunsen burners involved. Actually, if it works out, it'll be a junk recovery mission. There's a fishery boat at the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico that it could be way cheaper for us to retrieve than the usual retrieval guys, /if/ I can get us down there economically."
“I didn’t want to say anything, but while I was over there I did see a notebook with ‘Richard Wallace’ written like a couple hundred-millions times with a bunch of hearts everywhere.” Tiffany just dead-eyes the man, “Economically, like…” She pouts, shrugging, “Teleporting?” … “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something. I think you need like, an office manager and maybe like, a receptionist.” Tiffany slides her foot out, drawing one of the empty boxes behind her as if to hide it.
"Gotta admit, that one I find strangely hard to believe. Who would want to give up the alliteration?" Jeremy smiles, a little too widely, because he thinks he's totally hilarious. "I don't think that I can afford an office manager or a receptionist," he goes with easy frankness. He runs his hand back through his hair, snort puffing past his nose in a voiceless laugh.
Tiffany doesn't smile because she doesn't get it. "You probably could with the money you'd save on your energy bill from restricting access to like, the holoprojector to like, normal work hours." She shifts her eyes, "And I think people have been breaking pens for fun. And you should probably make them get rid of that cat." ... "I'm really affordable and I like telling people bad news."
"You've already got a job," Jeremy points out. His frown crinkles his brow. He pauses. He goes: "...what cat?"
"I'm way better on the phone than I am on the anti-terrorism task force. I was on a phone sex line for like, a week and a half before they fired me for trying to convert too many people to Christianity," Tiffany raises her eyebrows, as if trying to make a sell. "Yeahh, is that like a shapeshifter or what's up with that? ... You should feed it, it looks skinny."
Jeremy starts to answer and then stops. He breaks into a laugh and scrubs his hand over his face, and then presses the heels of both his hands temporarily against his eyes. "The anti-terrorism thing was kind of an aberration. We don't get that many phone calls. Mostly it forwards to my Ears, anyways. I admit, walk-ins get whoever's around and that's not entirely ideal. But yeah, no, I don't know anything about a cat shapeshifter and I got enough mouths to feed feeding stray humans.""I don't anything ...about it ...either," Tiffany widens her eyes again, bending to lift up two of the boxes. She pushes the other two, one inside of the other, forward with her feet as she makes her way towards the exit. "Your feet smell like roses," she calls, hip-checking open the door to the outside.