Emma would have abruptly asked why, in the end, did Alison even pretend to care about the opinion of someone dressing too much like a slut – And then, she would have smiled, made a crisp smile with throwing away the sketches of costume in the nearest bin, possibly with a well thought of remark about feminism and her very own application of the term. She would have, it would have been grand, and she would have pretended her own cruelty did not really matter in front of Alison’s possibly pained expression. And yet, Emma did not.
Instead, she slowly and discreetly chewed on the inside of her mouth, as if to distract herself from the tantalizing possibilities she had in front of her. It seemed like a neverending pattern – Alison had very little idea of what could be going on in Emma’s head, and Emma sanctified herself for being so understanding, so patient with the lesser beings around her. At the very least, this was the official version – The one Emma would stand by asked any questions about this conversation, or the various ones she cared to entertain during the day, because of course Emma Frost cared about no one but herself. It was a stereotype, but an efficient one – So easy to accept and admit, while deep down they all possibly knew what a joke she was, and just how much she actually did care about others. Alison knew – It was a fact more than an assumption. However, Emma did not have to acknowledge that she knew.
If she had acknowledge it, she would probably have had to go into a painful, pathetic talk about Alison’s feelings, and how she really was not left out, and this was not something Emma would allow.
Still, there was something in Emma’s demeanor – slight, as it always was – that seemed to let on more than anything she would allow herself to say. The blonde straightened herself up slightly, a dry smile that did not reach her eyes twisting her pale lips, as if she were almost silently mocking the other blonde. She was not, of course. Emma knew all too well the distinct feeling left behind by the need of acceptance, approval, as if a few words from specific people could easily define one person and reshape one’s own world. This was her father, this was Sebastian to some extends, and the X-Men to some other. Maybe Alison had had to pretend before, but it was to live her dream, and this might have made everything more acceptable. Except it did not, and here Emma was with that same old paradox and that same old bitter irony, and she was thankful for her revealing attires and people not taking her as seriously as they should upon first meeting her, because then she did not have to really worry about all that. Not really. She did anyway. It almost made her want to let Alison know about her vision of acceptance, and how widely overrated it was. Almost.
“You are here, aren’t you, darling? This is enough to testify of your importance. It should be enough. If it isn’t, I can assure you a trademark is not going to get sweet little Alison noticed.” And of course Alison was not little, and perhaps not even sweet, but this was unimportant. “I would challenge you to prove your point by running a study of the market on the impact this brand new design would have on San Francisco’s population, but I wouldn’t want to risk giving you some free promotion.” This, and Alison would likely succeed. “But by all means, if you have any commercial speech to convince me this thrilling design is not just the product of your bad taste, I suppose I could only feel oblige to take some of my precious time to listen to it.”
Alison watched with anticipation. It wasn’t that she had any money riding on this (which she actually did, thanks to some betting and weird situations she had gotten herself in the previous week) but once again, she wanted to prove her worth. That was her whole motto, her little habit that kept her ticking over like a clock–her desperate need to show others that she wasn’t just some bargain bin freak turned side show entertainer.
Her fingers moved slowly over the fabric of her leather jacket, it was helping calm her nerves. Slightly, but it helped. The blonde was as jittery as ever, she felt the urge to move–to get out and just do something, anything, but she restrained herself like she had learned to do. Like everyone learns to do at that point in their lives, because people grow up. And that’s something everyone has to, face no matter what. And with maturity came a need to punch people in the face, not everyone, but just the people who were sleazy enough to think a highlighted crotch meant ‘I’m easy, come and get me baby.’ Which, word of warning, it doesn’t.
She straightened herself up, once again waiting for Emma’s words of criticism or approval. She drew a shaky breath, trying to slow down and, you know, not panic and have another heart attack. Not that the last was actually her own fault, apart from the fact that she thought that somehow, someway she could defend herself against demented versions of the original five X-men. Which she couldn’t but she managed to get at least three of them down.
“Say what you want, but blue face paint and rollerskates put me on the map–something a little more updated should work again.” She replied, a very slight edge to her voice. The edge was hidden mostly but the anxiousness she could feel building in the pit of her stomach. “Couldn’t stand to see someone steal your spotlight?” Alison questioned, the edge faded and was replaced with a sudden cheekiness that seemingly came out of nowhere. “It’s understandable, really. Not many like to think that they could be usurped by me–you’ll get over it.” she waved her hand dismissively. Alison pursed her lips, if she knew Emma’s was actually going to give her a chance to argue her opinion she would have rewritten a legally blonde song for the occasion. “Think of it this way, do you want me to burn the words 'Uptight snob’ onto your back, or would you rather that you improved the overall look of the team by helping me out?” Alison crossed her arms over her chest, kind of proud with her little statement.
wamph-archive reblogged this from lightengale-archive-blog and added: “Inspiring?” Emma carefully repeated, articulating each syllables as if talking to a small child to make him understand...
lightengale-archive-blog reblogged this from wamph-archive and added: “Yes.” Alison replied firmly, her arms crossing over her chest in her usual manner–it was the same glassy eyed look she...
