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Who: Emma Frost & Manuel de la Rocha
When: March 31st, Night
Where: The Savage Lands
What: Talking about the dreams and complaining about the Savage Lands.
Warnings: ~Emotions~
Today has been long and strange and Manuel is relieved to be settling in for the night, even if they’re settling in sleeping bags on the hard ground and even if the night here is almost as oppressively hot and humid as the day. Rest is rest. And at least he and Emma had ended up together in the one tent Scott had brought along, relatively alone and protected from the insects and the elements a bit more than the others.
After a quick washing up with the water from a nearby stream, he’s stretched out on his side with one arm folded under his head, watching as his friend combs out her hair before bed. In some ways, this reminds him of all the times they’d snuck into each other’s rooms after curfew growing up. The way they’d lie close together on one of their beds late at night, whispering conspiratorially or (once he’d become accustomed to it) speaking directly into each other’s minds. He smiles to himself, assuming that the association will have reached her mind too.
It’s an illusion of solitude, of course. But he needs it if he’s going to be able to go through with the talk they’d agreed to have earlier in the day. He lets his eyes close for a moment and idly considers pretending to fall asleep, but… no. He’s a man of his word. And she’d never fall for it anyway.
When he opens his eyes again, she’s looking at him and his smile broadens with puckish guilt. “...I would never,” he says simply in his own defense before the expression wanes and he tries to mentally prepare himself.
“...So.”
Emma does find this reminiscent of their childhoods, which brings an unexpected warmth to the moment. She hates that they're in a tent, in some insane place searching for Charles, about to have an uncomfortable conversation, but she's going to drag whatever comfort she can from the situation. Her feelings are slightly open to her companion, sharing that bit of a bright spot with him. The rest of her feelings are muddied - bits of exhaustion, worry, impatience.
Still, she laughs a little at his thoughts on feigning sleep, setting aside her brush to start braiding her hair. She doesn't normally do this, but - desperate times.
"Which terrible thing would you like to start with? Genosha? Your dream? I can also complain endlessly about our current predicament if you'd like, as an appetizer."
Having that glimpse into Emma's emotions, feeling those sparks of warmth and nostalgia and amusement as they rise from amidst her more somber mood, eases Manuel a little. Even if he knows none of that will last long for either of them. Not once they get to the heart of the matter. With that in mind, when his friend offers him a few more moments to brace himself, he takes them.
"An amuse-bouche, then," he confirms lightly, then prompts, "Vale. What do you hate most about this miserable jungle?"
Leaving her feelings open to him Emma hums, finishing off her braid and securing it first with a tie, and then wrapped on her head with some bobby pins. She is thoughtful and a little amused as she tries to pick the worst part of their situation.
"Eventually it will be the lack of showers, but right now? This miserable excuse for ground. I miss my bed already."
Immediately, Manuel grimaces. They've only spent one day (and not even a full day) backpacking through this wilderness and he's already certain that she's right. If they keep going like this and supplies start dwindling, they're all going to be absolutely filthy. It's a far more inconsequential problem than many of the others they're facing, objectively, but...he still doesn't like it.
"...We need to hurry this rescue mission along," he replies sullenly, "Being stiff in the morning, I can tolerate. But a man has his limits."
Emma smiles, the expression more resigned than anything else. They are not going to have a good time here, but they'll make it through. She goes to lie down, fully experiencing the ground. It's not good.
"Agreed. I'm ready for this to be resolved." Even though she knows it will yield nothing, she reaches out with her mind in search of Charles and his mutant… captor? Whatever. Even stretching to her limits, she finds nothing. "I hope the children don't miss us too badly while we're gone. We'll have to clean up really well on the jet so they don't see us like this."
"There's that," Manuel acknowledges, thinking back to the more mundane part of their work with a fondness that somewhat surprises him. He knows for a fact that most of the students won't miss him at all. Most of them don't like him. Even ignoring how many of them feel about his powers, he's too strict, too demanding, too serious about an elective subject. But there are a few that do and a few that will miss him. And he wouldn't want to do anything that would change how they see him. Including returning from this excursion as some unkempt, feral mess.
Emma's right; they'll have to do what they can to come back presentable. Still, that's not his only concern.
"I just hope the substitutes know what they're doing," he returns with a wry smile, "I'd hate to have to come back and break them of any bad habits they picked up in our absence. Not everyone has the standards we do." In the midst of this, his mind drifts through the students that've put in the work and made progress this semester. The ones that he's worked with the closest. Among them, incorrect and unwelcome, is a memory from his dream: teaching Cecilia.
Cecilia, who he'd instructed since she was a young child. Cecilia, who was his pride and joy. Cecilia, his--
He pushes the thought down sharply and looks away from Emma for a moment, overcome with restless discomfort and something akin to guilt. Perhaps it's time to get to it, after all.
Anything she was going to say about the students, about returning home, is lost when Manuel's thoughts drift to his dream. Emma had promised not to dig and she isn't, but his surface level thoughts are there for her to see without trying. She watches her friend, even as he glances away. They maybe should stop skirting the main topic - her agreement about this is gentle in his mind, reassuring and confident that, while uncomfortable, this will be good for them.
"It seems your mind has chosen the first topic."
"Treacherous thing," Manuel returns, looking back at Emma and forcing a stiff smile that doesn't reach his eyes or his mind at all. Then he nods and pulls in a breath, willing himself to just get on with it. Get through it.
"...You and I never went to the Institute. We met in the Hellfire Club, grew up there and got...close there. We used our powers for them, to collect secrets and manipulate people. Break people. Anything they asked." He swallows around a sudden lump in his throat, trying to anchor his mind in the here and now, rather than letting it drift back to the dream. Everything he did. Everything they did together. "It was routine. It was easy. We were exceptional at it, so we rose in the ranks. And when we couldn't rise any farther, we got the other members out of the way. Whatever it took."
He remembers reveling in those machinations. Emma had been ice cold and brutally efficient. But he had been malicious.
"At the end of it, you were the Black King and I was the White King. It was all ours. We... Dios mĂo, the things we did with it, Em. And through it all, we hid. Played at being normal."
At this, all the fearful self-loathing that's been building up becomes intermingled with a different sort of discomfort. Aversion and awkwardness. He rolls onto his back and stares at the top of the tent; anything but look at Emma as he continues. "...We got married. We had children that we kept in the dark about everything. Protected, I suppose. For all the good it will do them in the long run."
Finally, he just stops talking and presses his palms against his closed eyes. He doesn't feel any better. If anything, he feels worse. He's not responsible for the actions of his other self, he knows, but recounting those experiences as if they were his own feels like it's left an indelible stain.
Throughout, Emma is quiet, though she has to resist the urge to interject and reassure. Her emotions remain slightly exposed to Manuel, though, and she figures that should do some of the work for her. There is gentle concern, but otherwise she is steady. None of this is startling to her, given how he'd been acting. She could guess the broad strokes of his dream from that and their conversation the other day, and so no surprise registers in her feelings. The details are, of course, new, but they don't really change anything.
She curls her hands to her chest to keep from reaching out to touch him - her own discomfort has waned enough that she could, but it likely wouldn't do him any good.
"Cariño." Her voice is quiet but firm, to focus him. Honestly, though, she's also buying herself a little time. What is she supposed to say? She can't fix this with a few words.
"We're not them. I know it's cliche, but the fact that you hate what they are is the clearest evidence that we're not the same."
Manuel lies still while Emma's concern and calm wash over his empathic sense, but he doesn't let them into his mind. Evading this by losing himself in what she feels isn't the point of all this, after all. Even if she is right. Even if she's being the rational one and he's being the emotional one. Nothing new there. Everything she'd said to him the night of the dreams is as true now as it was then.
But...
"...I know we're not the same," he says quietly, but there's a sinking feeling in his chest. Because this has never been about what he knows or who he is. It's been about experiencing how it feels to be that way and use his powers that way and not care. It's been about how the (hopefully) worst version of him is so recognizable and could justify every terrible thing he ever did just as easily as he can. It all seems far more within reach now than it could've before all this started and the prospect makes him sick. Fearful of his powers or himself in a way that he never has been, even though nothing has actually changed.
A thought occurs to him, absurd in the midst of everything.
"Do you know what the worst part is?"
Again, Emma is quiet, trying as hard as she can to think of just what to say to soothe her friend. It's difficult, even with a view into his mind. It doesn't help that the things he seems to be struggling with are things she quickly made peace with. She hates this, but she tamps down the feeling so as not to bother him with it.
She hazards a touch, a light hand on his shoulder, attentive to whether or not it is unwelcome so that she can draw back quickly if need be.
"What?" She doesn't read the answer in his mind, allowing him to articulate it himself.
Manuel catches that flicker of discomfort and guilt and simple enmity for this situation before Emma snuffs it out and glances at her with the faintest smile as her hand settles on his shoulder, as if he's caught her at something. She's trying to protect him again. Suppressing what she feels so that it won't reach him through the willing break in her psychic defenses. It almost defeats the purpose of lowering them at all.
"...We're bad at this," he teases gently, reaching up to put his hand over hers.
Then he exhales a breath and shakes his head, his smile remaining but taking on a bitter quality. He can't leave her waiting, so he continues.
"That he's happy. He's...a good parent. A good partner. He sleeps easily. The absolute gall."
"Sorry, cariño. Old habits and all that." Emma lets out a little sigh, trying to let herself be more open again. Worry continues to wind through her feelings, and a bit of frustration directed at herself (she tells him this in his mind, so he doesn't mistake its source).
Squeezing his shoulder, she frowns momentarily. The tone needs to shift here, and Manny is making an effort so she will as well. "It's always easier to not care - of course he's happy. No guilt, fewer worries about others, a perfect, beautiful, wonderful wife. The most gorgeous children, I'm sure."
There's nothing for Emma to apologize for, really. Manuel knows that if he could do what she can do, he'd struggle to ever lower his guard or reveal the bare truth of himself to anyone. Perhaps he's asking too much of her. But she's trying anyway. Just like he's trying.
Despite himself and despite how messed up all of this is, he laughs as his friend describes her other self -- a perfect, beautiful, wonderful wife, indeed -- and speculates about their shared children. His mind catches momentarily on a detail from the dream that his other self knows but has never accepted as he thinks about their sons and daughter, but then lets it go. Whatever it is, it can't matter, and he doesn't want to dwell in that headspace any more than he needs to. Instead, he concedes, "...Well. When you put it like that, sĂ. Obviamente."
Then he's quiet for a moment, considering her words. He settles on the obvious question and, while he knows the answer, he still feels compelled to ask.
"...and we'll always hold each other accountable, no? Make sure we care?"
As Manny dismisses whatever transient detail about that life Emma does too, seeing no reason to dig. She'd also like both of them to leave that behind. It takes a moment, but she does manage a smile for him, even as he brings up accountability. It is unnecessary to ask, and she hates that he feels the need to, but she's always happy to ease his worries.
"Of course. The others will, too." She goes quiet, thoughtful, her feelings warm as she ponders the rest of their team. Emma has no doubts about herself here, no matter how much she jokes about her rather grey morals, but the rest of their group is a much more compelling reassurance. They are good. "We know they love us and are all very upstanding. I can't imagine either of us being able to not care with them around."
This reassurance gives Manuel a moment of pause. Typically, he puts more trust in Emma than anyone else and he would be inclined to look to her, and her alone, for something like this. Because she knows him better than anyone. Because she can look into him and keep him honest even when his impulses would push him to be anything else. But she has a point and feeling her fondness for all of them grounds him in that truth. Both of them would certainly be worse for never having met the others, if the reality of his other self is anything to go by. They are good.
"...Very upstanding," he concedes, pulling in a deep breath and letting it out again. His voice comes out dry, almost dismissive, but his emotions feel the smallest bit lighter. "So, we have no choice but to care, do we?"
"I think we're stuck with hearts that bleed from time to time." Emma does hate it, sometimes, wishing herself harsher in moments when it would be easier. But ultimately she's glad she's not like that. Glad, of course, that Manny isn't either. Even though she still feels like they're different from their friends fundamentally, a step away from actual goodness, she has no concerns about them truly slipping into a callous place.
Her hand moves from under his to gently muss his hair. "What we really need to focus on is coaxing a few of them into a bit more misbehavior, I think."
Manuel doesn't have it in him to turn away or protest as Emma tousles his still-damp hair. For now, he's just glad to have her close again. To feel her care for him and her confidence in the reassurances she offers even if they can't quite set everything right in his mind. He waits until she withdraws her hand to run his fingers through his hair and get it back into some sort of order, sighing and giving her a look of feigned exasperation. How dare she. The indignity of it all. Etcetera. Then he smiles a little.
"Ah, sĂ. But what even qualifies as misbehavior in this godforsaken place? We may have to wait until we get home."
When: March 31st, Night
Where: The Savage Lands
What: Talking about the dreams and complaining about the Savage Lands.
Warnings: ~Emotions~
Today has been long and strange and Manuel is relieved to be settling in for the night, even if they’re settling in sleeping bags on the hard ground and even if the night here is almost as oppressively hot and humid as the day. Rest is rest. And at least he and Emma had ended up together in the one tent Scott had brought along, relatively alone and protected from the insects and the elements a bit more than the others.
After a quick washing up with the water from a nearby stream, he’s stretched out on his side with one arm folded under his head, watching as his friend combs out her hair before bed. In some ways, this reminds him of all the times they’d snuck into each other’s rooms after curfew growing up. The way they’d lie close together on one of their beds late at night, whispering conspiratorially or (once he’d become accustomed to it) speaking directly into each other’s minds. He smiles to himself, assuming that the association will have reached her mind too.
It’s an illusion of solitude, of course. But he needs it if he’s going to be able to go through with the talk they’d agreed to have earlier in the day. He lets his eyes close for a moment and idly considers pretending to fall asleep, but… no. He’s a man of his word. And she’d never fall for it anyway.
When he opens his eyes again, she’s looking at him and his smile broadens with puckish guilt. “...I would never,” he says simply in his own defense before the expression wanes and he tries to mentally prepare himself.
“...So.”
Emma does find this reminiscent of their childhoods, which brings an unexpected warmth to the moment. She hates that they're in a tent, in some insane place searching for Charles, about to have an uncomfortable conversation, but she's going to drag whatever comfort she can from the situation. Her feelings are slightly open to her companion, sharing that bit of a bright spot with him. The rest of her feelings are muddied - bits of exhaustion, worry, impatience.
Still, she laughs a little at his thoughts on feigning sleep, setting aside her brush to start braiding her hair. She doesn't normally do this, but - desperate times.
"Which terrible thing would you like to start with? Genosha? Your dream? I can also complain endlessly about our current predicament if you'd like, as an appetizer."
Having that glimpse into Emma's emotions, feeling those sparks of warmth and nostalgia and amusement as they rise from amidst her more somber mood, eases Manuel a little. Even if he knows none of that will last long for either of them. Not once they get to the heart of the matter. With that in mind, when his friend offers him a few more moments to brace himself, he takes them.
"An amuse-bouche, then," he confirms lightly, then prompts, "Vale. What do you hate most about this miserable jungle?"
Leaving her feelings open to him Emma hums, finishing off her braid and securing it first with a tie, and then wrapped on her head with some bobby pins. She is thoughtful and a little amused as she tries to pick the worst part of their situation.
"Eventually it will be the lack of showers, but right now? This miserable excuse for ground. I miss my bed already."
Immediately, Manuel grimaces. They've only spent one day (and not even a full day) backpacking through this wilderness and he's already certain that she's right. If they keep going like this and supplies start dwindling, they're all going to be absolutely filthy. It's a far more inconsequential problem than many of the others they're facing, objectively, but...he still doesn't like it.
"...We need to hurry this rescue mission along," he replies sullenly, "Being stiff in the morning, I can tolerate. But a man has his limits."
Emma smiles, the expression more resigned than anything else. They are not going to have a good time here, but they'll make it through. She goes to lie down, fully experiencing the ground. It's not good.
"Agreed. I'm ready for this to be resolved." Even though she knows it will yield nothing, she reaches out with her mind in search of Charles and his mutant… captor? Whatever. Even stretching to her limits, she finds nothing. "I hope the children don't miss us too badly while we're gone. We'll have to clean up really well on the jet so they don't see us like this."
"There's that," Manuel acknowledges, thinking back to the more mundane part of their work with a fondness that somewhat surprises him. He knows for a fact that most of the students won't miss him at all. Most of them don't like him. Even ignoring how many of them feel about his powers, he's too strict, too demanding, too serious about an elective subject. But there are a few that do and a few that will miss him. And he wouldn't want to do anything that would change how they see him. Including returning from this excursion as some unkempt, feral mess.
Emma's right; they'll have to do what they can to come back presentable. Still, that's not his only concern.
"I just hope the substitutes know what they're doing," he returns with a wry smile, "I'd hate to have to come back and break them of any bad habits they picked up in our absence. Not everyone has the standards we do." In the midst of this, his mind drifts through the students that've put in the work and made progress this semester. The ones that he's worked with the closest. Among them, incorrect and unwelcome, is a memory from his dream: teaching Cecilia.
Cecilia, who he'd instructed since she was a young child. Cecilia, who was his pride and joy. Cecilia, his--
He pushes the thought down sharply and looks away from Emma for a moment, overcome with restless discomfort and something akin to guilt. Perhaps it's time to get to it, after all.
Anything she was going to say about the students, about returning home, is lost when Manuel's thoughts drift to his dream. Emma had promised not to dig and she isn't, but his surface level thoughts are there for her to see without trying. She watches her friend, even as he glances away. They maybe should stop skirting the main topic - her agreement about this is gentle in his mind, reassuring and confident that, while uncomfortable, this will be good for them.
"It seems your mind has chosen the first topic."
"Treacherous thing," Manuel returns, looking back at Emma and forcing a stiff smile that doesn't reach his eyes or his mind at all. Then he nods and pulls in a breath, willing himself to just get on with it. Get through it.
"...You and I never went to the Institute. We met in the Hellfire Club, grew up there and got...close there. We used our powers for them, to collect secrets and manipulate people. Break people. Anything they asked." He swallows around a sudden lump in his throat, trying to anchor his mind in the here and now, rather than letting it drift back to the dream. Everything he did. Everything they did together. "It was routine. It was easy. We were exceptional at it, so we rose in the ranks. And when we couldn't rise any farther, we got the other members out of the way. Whatever it took."
He remembers reveling in those machinations. Emma had been ice cold and brutally efficient. But he had been malicious.
"At the end of it, you were the Black King and I was the White King. It was all ours. We... Dios mĂo, the things we did with it, Em. And through it all, we hid. Played at being normal."
At this, all the fearful self-loathing that's been building up becomes intermingled with a different sort of discomfort. Aversion and awkwardness. He rolls onto his back and stares at the top of the tent; anything but look at Emma as he continues. "...We got married. We had children that we kept in the dark about everything. Protected, I suppose. For all the good it will do them in the long run."
Finally, he just stops talking and presses his palms against his closed eyes. He doesn't feel any better. If anything, he feels worse. He's not responsible for the actions of his other self, he knows, but recounting those experiences as if they were his own feels like it's left an indelible stain.
Throughout, Emma is quiet, though she has to resist the urge to interject and reassure. Her emotions remain slightly exposed to Manuel, though, and she figures that should do some of the work for her. There is gentle concern, but otherwise she is steady. None of this is startling to her, given how he'd been acting. She could guess the broad strokes of his dream from that and their conversation the other day, and so no surprise registers in her feelings. The details are, of course, new, but they don't really change anything.
She curls her hands to her chest to keep from reaching out to touch him - her own discomfort has waned enough that she could, but it likely wouldn't do him any good.
"Cariño." Her voice is quiet but firm, to focus him. Honestly, though, she's also buying herself a little time. What is she supposed to say? She can't fix this with a few words.
"We're not them. I know it's cliche, but the fact that you hate what they are is the clearest evidence that we're not the same."
Manuel lies still while Emma's concern and calm wash over his empathic sense, but he doesn't let them into his mind. Evading this by losing himself in what she feels isn't the point of all this, after all. Even if she is right. Even if she's being the rational one and he's being the emotional one. Nothing new there. Everything she'd said to him the night of the dreams is as true now as it was then.
But...
"...I know we're not the same," he says quietly, but there's a sinking feeling in his chest. Because this has never been about what he knows or who he is. It's been about experiencing how it feels to be that way and use his powers that way and not care. It's been about how the (hopefully) worst version of him is so recognizable and could justify every terrible thing he ever did just as easily as he can. It all seems far more within reach now than it could've before all this started and the prospect makes him sick. Fearful of his powers or himself in a way that he never has been, even though nothing has actually changed.
A thought occurs to him, absurd in the midst of everything.
"Do you know what the worst part is?"
Again, Emma is quiet, trying as hard as she can to think of just what to say to soothe her friend. It's difficult, even with a view into his mind. It doesn't help that the things he seems to be struggling with are things she quickly made peace with. She hates this, but she tamps down the feeling so as not to bother him with it.
She hazards a touch, a light hand on his shoulder, attentive to whether or not it is unwelcome so that she can draw back quickly if need be.
"What?" She doesn't read the answer in his mind, allowing him to articulate it himself.
Manuel catches that flicker of discomfort and guilt and simple enmity for this situation before Emma snuffs it out and glances at her with the faintest smile as her hand settles on his shoulder, as if he's caught her at something. She's trying to protect him again. Suppressing what she feels so that it won't reach him through the willing break in her psychic defenses. It almost defeats the purpose of lowering them at all.
"...We're bad at this," he teases gently, reaching up to put his hand over hers.
Then he exhales a breath and shakes his head, his smile remaining but taking on a bitter quality. He can't leave her waiting, so he continues.
"That he's happy. He's...a good parent. A good partner. He sleeps easily. The absolute gall."
"Sorry, cariño. Old habits and all that." Emma lets out a little sigh, trying to let herself be more open again. Worry continues to wind through her feelings, and a bit of frustration directed at herself (she tells him this in his mind, so he doesn't mistake its source).
Squeezing his shoulder, she frowns momentarily. The tone needs to shift here, and Manny is making an effort so she will as well. "It's always easier to not care - of course he's happy. No guilt, fewer worries about others, a perfect, beautiful, wonderful wife. The most gorgeous children, I'm sure."
There's nothing for Emma to apologize for, really. Manuel knows that if he could do what she can do, he'd struggle to ever lower his guard or reveal the bare truth of himself to anyone. Perhaps he's asking too much of her. But she's trying anyway. Just like he's trying.
Despite himself and despite how messed up all of this is, he laughs as his friend describes her other self -- a perfect, beautiful, wonderful wife, indeed -- and speculates about their shared children. His mind catches momentarily on a detail from the dream that his other self knows but has never accepted as he thinks about their sons and daughter, but then lets it go. Whatever it is, it can't matter, and he doesn't want to dwell in that headspace any more than he needs to. Instead, he concedes, "...Well. When you put it like that, sĂ. Obviamente."
Then he's quiet for a moment, considering her words. He settles on the obvious question and, while he knows the answer, he still feels compelled to ask.
"...and we'll always hold each other accountable, no? Make sure we care?"
As Manny dismisses whatever transient detail about that life Emma does too, seeing no reason to dig. She'd also like both of them to leave that behind. It takes a moment, but she does manage a smile for him, even as he brings up accountability. It is unnecessary to ask, and she hates that he feels the need to, but she's always happy to ease his worries.
"Of course. The others will, too." She goes quiet, thoughtful, her feelings warm as she ponders the rest of their team. Emma has no doubts about herself here, no matter how much she jokes about her rather grey morals, but the rest of their group is a much more compelling reassurance. They are good. "We know they love us and are all very upstanding. I can't imagine either of us being able to not care with them around."
This reassurance gives Manuel a moment of pause. Typically, he puts more trust in Emma than anyone else and he would be inclined to look to her, and her alone, for something like this. Because she knows him better than anyone. Because she can look into him and keep him honest even when his impulses would push him to be anything else. But she has a point and feeling her fondness for all of them grounds him in that truth. Both of them would certainly be worse for never having met the others, if the reality of his other self is anything to go by. They are good.
"...Very upstanding," he concedes, pulling in a deep breath and letting it out again. His voice comes out dry, almost dismissive, but his emotions feel the smallest bit lighter. "So, we have no choice but to care, do we?"
"I think we're stuck with hearts that bleed from time to time." Emma does hate it, sometimes, wishing herself harsher in moments when it would be easier. But ultimately she's glad she's not like that. Glad, of course, that Manny isn't either. Even though she still feels like they're different from their friends fundamentally, a step away from actual goodness, she has no concerns about them truly slipping into a callous place.
Her hand moves from under his to gently muss his hair. "What we really need to focus on is coaxing a few of them into a bit more misbehavior, I think."
Manuel doesn't have it in him to turn away or protest as Emma tousles his still-damp hair. For now, he's just glad to have her close again. To feel her care for him and her confidence in the reassurances she offers even if they can't quite set everything right in his mind. He waits until she withdraws her hand to run his fingers through his hair and get it back into some sort of order, sighing and giving her a look of feigned exasperation. How dare she. The indignity of it all. Etcetera. Then he smiles a little.
"Ah, sĂ. But what even qualifies as misbehavior in this godforsaken place? We may have to wait until we get home."