13310/An Auspicious Day

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An Auspicious Day
Date of Scene: 17 May 2021
Location: Willow's Room, Apartment 214 (TBD)
Synopsis: Summary needed
Cast of Characters: Quicksilver, Willow Rosenberg, Rupert Giles, Sinister




Quicksilver has posed:
There had been a message sent to Willow, and it might have seemed a bit... out of the blue, for today. Pietro hadn't ghosted her or anything of the sort, but he hadn't message bombed her either. The message of some minutes ago -- it always feels longer to him than it actually is on account of how time works for him -- had been simple: 'What hot beverage would you like?' And now, Pietro was waiting on the response. He likely wasn't far, though with his speed he could be in a lot of places!

Willow Rosenberg has posed:
Willow had just gotten home from her new job. Strangely the hours were flexible, and for the next two weeks they were easing her in. It was perfect for her!

Then came the text from Pietro.. which made her blush. And blush again. She had been so busy she forgot all him.. and then.. she wondered..

..Why was he calling her?

Shut up, Willow. Shut. Up. Just go with the flow. He probably just wanted to be friends.

She asked for an extra large mochachino (what?! She was celebrating!) and while she waited, she put some cookies on a plate. She actually tried his recipe for oatmeal, but hadn't tried them yet.

Now she waited.

Quicksilver has posed:
There's might have been some small amount of impatience about waiting for the reply to come from Willow. He paced, he twisted a ring on one of his fingers, he fidgetted, and he pulled his fingers through his white hair. And then he eyed his phone as if it was the phone's fault. And then there was a hint of a smile to tug his lips when the reply came. Since he's not familiar with what she'd normally drink, the request for an extra large mochachino didn't seem that unusual to him. He bought her requested drink, and bought for himself a chai tea -- something with very little in the way of caffeine (he doesn't need caffeine!), then stopped at the pastry shop to secure an assorted half dozen pastries. The same shop near to Central Park.

And with treats in hand, he made his way to Willow's apartment and arrived quite swiftly. Faster than normal human speeds would make possible. And without a drop spilled of either drink. He's done this before, clearly. Once to her apartment, he knocks on the door. And then... then he has to wait again! But he does, and he tries to be patient, though any fidgetting potential is limited by the fact that he has his hands full.

Willow Rosenberg has posed:
Golly! She just got off the phone, got the cookies, and there he was! To him it might have been an eon, but for her? She didn't have time to change her work clothes. Thank goodness she wore almost for work as casual.

"Come in!" Willow put the cookies on the coffee table. "I tried your recipe this time. They look good, but.." She turned to the door.

Odd.

"You needn't be polite, I've got all sorts of wards.." She opens the door. "And you aren't a vampire.. oh! But you did have your hands full." At which she blushes and giggles. "Sorry?"

Quicksilver has posed:
Though he could have put things down on the floor to be able to open the door and come in, he didn't. He waited for her to come and open the door, since juggling the box of pastries and the tray with their drinks could have ended up less than ideal where results were concerned. And when she did open the door, he quirked a bit of a lopsided grin. "Last time I checked, I'm not a vampire. At least, I haven't had a yen for drinking blood yet, so I consider that a favourable sign. Or biting necks. Usually," he says, a brief flick of amusement finding some of the words.

"It's fine, there's no harm done, I assure you, and no apology needed at all," Pietro says, giving a small nod to her. He doesn't say that he doesn't mind waiting -- it would be a bold faced lie! But he does step in, and find himself glancing towards the cookies that she'd put on the coffee table, and one of his eyebrows quirks just a touch. "Why was there a but after 'they look good'? They do look good, at least from here," he comments. "Your drink is the one marked 'MC'," he adds, giving a nod to her. "How was work and how're you doing? I hope I've not come at an inconvenient time," he says. His timing is... sometimes off. It happens.

Willow Rosenberg has posed:
Closing the door behind him, she takes a moment to gather her senses. "Not all vampires exist on blood per se. Though they do go around as succubus or incubus. Instead of blood they feast upon sexual energy. Depending, they can be grouped with vampires.. And" Willow goes to the couch. "They look good, but they may not taste good. I haven't tasted them yet."

Settling down on the couch, she grins. "Nah. I was all done for the day. You may be interrupted some real game time, but I can catch it up later. You're much more fun than that." Of course she doesn't tell him he's also interrupting her magic.. she will have to figure it out. Nothing unusual, just the regular changing schedules with her new job. Maybe she might have to cut her hours of sleep to 6, instead 7. Hrm..

Quicksilver has posed:
There's a blink at that. He hadn't expected her to say that! Pietro tilts his head a bit to one side, and then he gives a nod. "I didn't know that was a thing. Them not feeding on blood. You've taught me something new today," he comments. Already! That's unexpected! He isn't particularly used to learning new things. "Well, there's only one way of finding out if they taste good," he comments, quirking a bit of a grin, a sparkle showing briefly in his blue eyes.

He slips his shoes off at the door, leaving them behind, and he follows her over to the couch. The box of pastries is set on the coffee table, but on the far side of the plate of cookies, which he snags one of as brings his hand back. One of his feet gets tucked beneath him as he sits on the couch, angled to be facing her, and he tilts his head a bit to one side. "Real game time? Which game?" he asks, curious simply to see what she follows. Then one of his eyebrows quirks up. "Me, fun? Are you sure you've met me before?" he asks, a touch of that self-deprecating humour cropping up in the moment. Then he sets the tray of drinks on the coffee table before taking a bite of the cookie.

Willow Rosenberg has posed:
The laugh Willow gives is infectious. "It all depends if you play the same games as I do. Mostly things like Words With Friends, some Suduko.. oh! I started to play Empires and Puzzles, and recently I have taken up Chess. Sorta like that. Keeps my brain intact. Except the Empires. There is no redeeming quality about that." Well, there are some.

Taking her drink, and a cookie, "Well? Is it good? Keeping in mind, I'm going to try it, and I will know if you are lying!" Teasing.. well, mostly.

The 'self-deprecating' is lost on her.

Quicksilver has posed:
"Well, I might. At least maybe one or two of them," Pietro comments, quirking a grin and giving a light laugh. "Words With Friends, that is... like Scrabble, yes?" he asks, raising an eyebrow slightly. "Suduko is good. I like the interlinked ones that are five puzzle boxes to solve," he comments, giving a small nod. "I play chess as well, though it has been a little while since the last time," he adds, quirking a smile at her.

There's a nod, then, about the cookie. "It's very good! To you, I give the truth. Always," he says, giving a small nod. Even if the truth would hurt? Probably! He reaches for his drink, removing the lid of it carefully before he picks it up and takes a sip of it, the spicy scent of the chai tea rising into the air. "I tend not to lie to redheads, hmm? They have ways of knowing," he comments, the corners of his lips twitching. Then he eats the rest of the cookie.

Willow Rosenberg has posed:
"Always the linked puzzles! It helps me relax. Putting those numbers in the right spaces, it's like.. doing a translation that you only have a few choice words, and the rest you have to think about. And as you go on it starts to make sense. And when the final piece hits the whole thing makes sense. Sorta like computer science too."

Is there any wonder she loves those?

When he says he wouldn't lie to a redhead.. "Perhaps," Willow gives with a small sideways smile. "At least we have a temper to match our sunny dispositions. I forgot, you have Wanda." A pause. "What is she like?"

She nibbles on the cookie, while she waits.

Quicksilver has posed:
One of his eyebrows quirks up when she agrees to liking the same types of Suduko. "They are more of a challenge and I enjoy them more. The regular ones are... a trifle easy," he comments, quirking a smile as he watches her. He takes a sip of the chai, and he finds himself giving a nod of agreement. "That makes sense to me. You find most of the words in a sentence, and you can suss out what the rest of them are to make the rest fit, so to speak," he muses, glancing towards her before reaching for another of the cookies. He must like them, if he's going to have another!

Pietro snerks softly at the mention of a temper, and then he gives a small nod. "There is always the fire, all it needs is a spark," he says softly, a smile teasing at the corners of his lips. He takes a bite of the cookie, chewing thoughtfully. "She is kind and caring and I am grateful to have a sister like her in my life. She has been my anchor in darker times, and I suspect that I would not be alive to tell of such things without her. And, well... she has a temper. And a streak of mischief. But if she asks, I did not say those last two," he comments, amusement in his voice. "We have not always seen things the same way, but we have always been there for each other, Wanda and I."

Willow Rosenberg has posed:
"They take too little time to do, the easier ones. But I can imagine not everyone looks at it the same way. Like Buffy. She's all physical. Which is good, because I'm not! Sometimes while she's beating on the enemy, she's giving me time to finish the spells that are necessary. Mind you, most of the time she doesn't need me."

Willow decides that the cookies aren't half bad, and finishes the first one.

"Okay you're right. They are pretty good." But she listens to his tale about Wanda. "I don't really show my temper." Unless somebody tries to hurt her friends, then all bets are off. "Everyone thinks I'm sunshiney and innocent. That sort of thing. But they'd be wrong."

Quicksilver has posed:
"Mm, they do, the easier ones. I'd rather have the more challenging ones that actually make me think a minute or that make me think slower to have to solve them," Pietro says, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Then he lifts his hand nearest to her, to lightly tap the side of her head with one of his fingertips, if she lets him. "What's here is far more important than the physical. It means much more," he says softly, his tone thoughtful.

"Everyone has their own strengths. Their own weaknesses, too," he comments, a smile finding the corners of his lips. "And without your spells, would not something bad or worse come to pass?" he asks, a flicker of curiosity to his voice. "Mmhmm, they're quite good. I wouldn't have eaten another if they weren't. Not even for politeness," he comments, winking at her. He's not exactly known for being polite, after all. He chuckles softly, studying her for a moment then. "You're a redhead. That you have a temper is a given fact, even if it does have a long fuse on it. It is the quiet and innocent ones that they say bear the closest attention," he offers, a teasing note to his voice.

Willow Rosenberg has posed:
"But you would have taken one just for politeness.." Willow giggles. "Because I'm a redhead." And then she laughs even harder. "They really aren't so bad. Thanks for the tip."

Then a sigh.

"I don't think.. I mean, every Slayer kills the demons and stuff. They aren't usually paired with a.. well, Faith doesn't need me. Buffy would be fine without me."

Quicksilver has posed:
"Well... how could I know if they were good if I didn't at least take one?" Pietro suggests, quirking a bit of a grin, his blue eyes showing a sparkle to them. "They're quite the opposite end of the spectrum from bad," he adds, taking a sip of his tea before he reaches out for a third cookie. Apparently when given the choice between homemade cookies and store bought pastries -- homemade cookies win.

He tilts his head a touch to one side, taking a bite of the cookie and chewing as he thinks on what she's said. "Well... by the very name, a Slayer slays things," Pietro comments, his tongue briefly flicking out over his lips. "Which isn't to say that witches or those with magic don't have spells that do that. But there's a lot more to any fight than just killing the evil things," he says, a smile tugging his lips.

Willow Rosenberg has posed:
Willow sat back and reviewed what Pietro had presented. But was he giving her a cheer up (which had a slight possibility of being nice and not entirely true), or could he be telling the truth?

The truth was.. she didn't know what to believe.

"At least last night I helped." Last night she felt powerful. And smug. She didn't feel the same way now though.

Quicksilver has posed:
"I would not lie to you, Willow, or give you an untruth," Pietro says softly, a smile touching at the corners of his lips. "I respect you. That's not a thing that involves deception and fibs, no matter what reason one might put behind the doing of it," he adds, giving a small nod to her. Whether she believes him or not, he is telling the truth.

He raises an eyebrow slightly, then takes a sip of his chai, studying her. "What is it that happened last night? If you don't mind the question being asked," he says softly.

Willow Rosenberg has posed:
"Thank you." Willow met his gaze. "I believe you." But whether or not she can quiet her inner voice is another problem.

"Yesterday?" Of course she can talk about that! "We got called to a place where somebody had left a summoning circle alone. Turns out it was pretty bad, it summoned a Kraken. And turns out I was the only one with spells."

Quicksilver has posed:
"I'm glad that you believe me," Pietro says, giving a small nod to her. Or at least, she says that she believes him, and that will have to be good enough for him, in the moment. He takes a sip of his tea, then draws his other leg up in order to tuck it beneath him, sitting loosely cross-legged and apparently comfortably.

"A summoning circle can be a pretty dangerous thing when it's left unattended," he comments, tilting his head to one side. "I wouldn't have thought someone would set it to summon a kraken, but... that would be quite a fiercesome beastie to face down," he says. He reaches out to lightly prod her shoulder. "You see? You are needed. What happened with it?" he asks, a bit of curiosity to his voice. Obviously it turned out well, given that she's here and well! But he's asking for details, it would seem.

Willow Rosenberg has posed:
Very similarly, she sits on the couch, sideways, and tucks her feet beneath her as she gets comfy as well.

"I don't know what the original person meant to summon. He left with his finger cut off. And he did not have a basic idea.. like their summoning spell was all wrong. It's any wonder the Kraken didn't break out."

Willow shakes her head.

"While everyone distracted him, I did the circle of abjuration in the opposite direction, and an older language to make it stronger then what was there. Thank goodness, I finished when I did, we were getter trounced." And with that she shivers.

Quicksilver has posed:
"It sounds like he got off pretty lucky by being able to escape with just the loss of a finger," Pietro says. "I would expect that summoning anything would be a sort of very detailed thing. I imagine just one line or marking out of place could mean the difference between you getting what you want and something worse coming out. Or being able to contain what you want versus it deciding that you'll be a tasty treat for its dinner before it goes running amok through the city," he adds.

He reaches out to her when she gives that shiver, and he lightly rubs her shoulder. "Had you not been there to do as you did, it would have turned out much worse. You were not hurt, were you?" he asks, a flicker of concern coming to his voice. And a closer look to her is taken.

Willow Rosenberg has posed:
"I guess." Willow did not tell Pietro that she was fairly certain he didn't make out home either. The finger was gnawed off.

*Shiver.*

Of course her shiver, and his hand were in passing, so that when he touched her shoulder, he managed to feel her whole body shake. "The rest of them were busy keeping the Kraken busy, while I finished the spell to banish him."

She smiles at him, and then ducks her down.

Quicksilver has posed:
"Well... he made his choices and he made his mistakes, it seems," Pietro muses, a thoughtful tone to his voice. He lifts his cup of chai, taking a sip from it before he reaches out to set it aside. Softly, he moves his hand that's in contact with her to lightly rub her back, and his touch is both warm and gentle.

"It sounds rather like you saved the day by sending the Kraken back from whence it came," Pietro says, a smile tugging his lips. He slips his arm around her to give her a bit of a squeeze. Then he shifts slightly, leaning forward a bit to try to peek to her face. "Are you hiding?" he asks softly, a bit of a smile tugging his lips.

Willow Rosenberg has posed:
"..yes?"

Now she was pinkening. (note: pink was not a nice colour on Willow.)

Sugar!!

"I feel.. silly?" Willow really meant she wasn't sure why she had ducked her head down. "It should have been harder for me, and it wasn't. I always wanted to be special, only.. maybe it wasn't very hard. Maybe I thought it should have been."

It was difficult. And that wasn't the only thing that had her hiding her face.

Quicksilver has posed:
Blushing is cute on most women, and Pietro's attention is caught by it on her. A smile tugs at the corners of his lips, and he lightly rubs his hand at her shoulder opposite to him.

He shifts slightly, bringing his free hand to touch his fingers to her chin to lightly lift her face. "You should feel beautiful and powerful and strong," Pietro says, a soft note to his voice. "Perhaps your power has increased? With practice, that can happen. And if it has been happening bit by bit, then it may have escaped your notice, hmm?" he suggests, raising an eyebrow slightly. "I trust you not to turn me into a newt, by the way," he adds, quirking a bit of a grin. It's a bit of a tease. "You are special, Willow," he says softly, giving a small nod to her. More so than he is, in his opinion. He just runs fast.

Willow Rosenberg has posed:
Willow allows her face to be lifted, even if she was still pink.

"See?" She manages to shake her head just a touch. "I don't feel that. Well, when I am doing magic I sometimes feel strong. But the rest of the time?" She shakes head head once again. "I've never felt those things. I'm smart."

And then she frowns.

"At least I try. I'm just Willow. Plain old Willow. And that's okay. I mean I've never been beautiful. Back in sixth grade, with the girls blooming, I knew then I wasn't the prettiest. So I'm okay with that."

She leans her head on his hand. "Thank you though." And her eyes begin to sparkle. "She turned me into a newt.." And she waits.

Quicksilver has posed:
After lifting her chin, he moves his hand to lightly brush his fingers along her jaw, his touch soft and warm. "See, that's better. I can see you now," he says softly, giving a small nod to her.

"You should feel that. You banished a Kraken. That's a mystical and powerful sea critter that could have easily hurt a lot of people if you didn't," Pietro says, watching her. "You are smart. I wouldn't know the first place to start with trying to banish anything let alone a Kraken," he comments, a smile coming to his features. Then he chuckles softly before shaking his head. "Plain is definitely not you. And I think not old, either," he adds.

"They say that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. And I say that you're beautiful," he says, giving a small nod to her. He seems to mean it, too.

He can't help but to grin at her, his blue eyes showing a sparkle to them. "But I got better," he says with a wink.

Willow Rosenberg has posed:
"Yes!" Willow is tickled.. wait for it.. pink. "You know your Monty Python."

For a long moment she considers him. "You can't say I'm special, and you're not. It doesn't work that way. I can picture you in the middle of a crowd, watching as the people get slower and slower, and slower.. It must be invigorating and sad all at once. Sorta when I try to explain something with maths, or computers. I can see the moment when their brain shuts off, and suddenly I am the only one there, with statues instead of people."

Quicksilver has posed:
"I might have watched it a time or two when I was younger," Pietro comments, amusement in his voice and showing in his eyes. One of his eyebrows quirks up at her words, and he tilts his head a little bit to one side.

"Ah, well... I can, and I did," he says, quirking a grin. He considers what she says for a moment, and then he gives a nod. "People reach a point where they stop listening. And the things start going over their heads instead of in their ears," he muses, watching her. He lifts one of his shoulders a little bit, a smile quirking his lips. "In comparison to how quickly time passes, for me, everyone else is very slow. It makes timing difficult, sometimes. It can be... frustrating." Among other things, like patience.

Willow Rosenberg has posed:
"In the big picture, not listening is as good as going around so fast that we all look like we aren't moving." Willow cocks her head, buries her bottom lip between her teeth, and tucks a tiny hair back behind her ear. "It must be different."

Different, not difficult.

"You must live more life than the average human." Patience she has. Maybe too much so.

Quicksilver has posed:
Pietro Maximoff takes a moment to consider that, and he raises one of his eyebrows a touch. Then he gives a soft chuckle. "I can go that fast, you know," he comment, sounding a touch amused. He lightly brushes his fingers along her shoulder, having left his arm around her. "Different, it is," he says, his tone thoughtful. "It feels, much of the time, as though I am always waiting. For something. For someone. For just the world. And sometimes I become impatient with waiting. Or my timing is off," he says, a thoughtful tone to his voice.

"Ah, well... I don't know about that. I might move faster but everything else still moves at the same pace," he says.

Willow Rosenberg has posed:
"According to Stephen Hawking we are all in our own perception. This means as much as you would prefer me to understand you, I can only perceive you as I understand the world. Furthermore, you really don't exist as Pietro, but my perception of him. We'll never understand the same image because you and I occupy different spaces"

Willow looks very serious. "To me you can reach great speeds. To you, that is normal. To be included in my life, you must slow..down.." She thinks about this, before saying, "Or I can speed up."

No, she doesn't have the solution, but once she has a problem, you just know it bothers her until she has an answer.

Quicksilver has posed:
The speedster turns his blue gaze to her as she speaks of perception, and he tilts his head a little bit to one side. He's listening to her, attentively and carefully. "One can never perceive ones own self as others do," he says softly, a thoughtful tone claiming his voice. "My interpretation of normal is different than yours," he adds.

One of his eyebrows quirks up just a touch at the serious expression to her features. He shifts his position, leaning a bit closer to her, and he lifts one of his hands to gently, slowly, try to catch a few locks of her hair to brush them from her face. And then he gives a small nod. "I have been trying," he says softly. Patience isn't easy, he doesn't come by it naturally, but he has been trying.

Willow Rosenberg has posed:
*blinks*

"You.. listened to it all, didn't you?" For Willow that was very rare, even amongst the schoolmates. She was always in the top of her classes, and either everything was beyond most, or sometime she was the victim of her sex. Boys were often afraid of girls who were smarter than them. Still. "I often think about how we live in our own little world. Everything we experience is in the past. We can't be feeling unless it is in the past. Well remember the feeling."

She puts her hand in his. "It's weird, in order to know this is your hand, it's already in the past. And yet you have thought that aren't mine."

Quicksilver has posed:
One of his eyebrows quirks up at her question, and he tilts his head to one side before giving a nod to her. "I did, I listened to all that you said," Pietro says, a smile finding the corners of his lips. His education wasn't exactly what most would consider formal in nature, but he reads a lot. He watches her, and he listens to her. He gives a soft chuckle at a thought, a flicker of amusement rising to his blue eyes. "It reminds me of Rafiki... the mandrill in the Lion King. The past can hurt, and you can either run from it or learn from it," he comments in a thoughtful tone.

"Each day, each moment, builds our experience. The experiences we have had are carried with us into the experiences we will have, colouring them in their own way. And how mine affect me in each moment will be different than how yours affect you," he says softly. He doesn't move his hand away from hers when she puts it into his, and he gently moves his hand against hers. "Your thoughts are derived from your experiences, from your past, from things you have been taught... a droplet from the pool of your life, if you will. And thus, mine from me," he says softly.

Willow Rosenberg has posed:
"It's fascinating. Everything makes us whole Even those things we're not aware of. To take your pool of life, sometimes we're in an onslaught, or maybe, or a gentle shower. And then things change. We've got them in our past, but the river changes. They're not in the future." Willow smiles, not yet taking her hand back. "Sometimes people share pools. But I wonder, do they forget what it is like to be an individual. Or never know what it is like to share.. and there I go.. again."

She stuck: either take her hand away, or, leave it.

She could ask him?

"What's it like being you? Really?"

Quicksilver has posed:
"Sometimes the pool is too full, sometimes it is too empty. Too hot, too cold," Pietro comments, a smile touching his lips anew. "Sometimes... things from the past, from our experiences, colour us and touch us in ways we do not realize in the here and now," he muses, considering it for a moment. "There might be a storm cloud tomorrow, but I'll deal with it then, hmm? It isn't here, in this moment," he adds, giving a small nod to her. He lips his fingers around her hand in order to give it a gentle squeeze. "If you will, my pool and yours are shared right now. In this moment. This experience, me with you and you with me, it is shared between us. It can be hard to be just one, by yourself, and it can be hard to share with another, too."

One of his eyebrows quirks up at her question, and he tilts his head to one side as he studies her. "To be me? Well... simple and complicated, at the same time," he offers at first. "Wanda is the one contant thing that has been in my life. I am always trying not to be bored or impatient or frustrated with the rest of the world and the people in it because they move at a different pace than what I perceive time to be for myself. It sometimes makes me... not nice. I fidget and pace and move around a lot," he says, lifting his free hand to pull his fingers through his white hair. And he seems to realize, halfway through the movement, that the movement is a form of fidgetting as well. He snorts softly, then points to his hair, to indicate the gesture he'd just done. "That, too," he adds, giving a wry sort of chuckle.

Willow Rosenberg has posed:
"Sometimes, when I'm with people, I turn my brain off. They're always about things that are boring. How's the weather. Did you see that attack I performed for the one thousandth time? My boyfriend is the cutest. Blah blah blah. Only I don't have the neat hair."

Willow giggles. "Would you like your hand back, to ruffle your hair. I guess I'm somewhat boring. I mean sometimes I want to think slow. Sometimes my brain is so fast putting everything together. The aha! The picking the right thought out of nowhere with nothing to back it.. sometimes I need to go slow, to adjust my center."

Then she smiles. "It's all right. I understand. Where I need to slow down, you need to speed up. To feel yourself again. To breathe."

Quicksilver has posed:
"It is not an easy thing. To turn one's brain off. I try it," Pietro says, a smile quirking his lips. "The mundanities of small talk can be trying. But for many people, they are important things, important parts of communicating. I tend to skip them," he comments, giving a soft chuckle. And he has seemed to do just that, with previous conversation with her -- he doesn't tend to indulge in small talk, it's more right into the meat and potatoes sort of thing.

One of his eyebrows nudges up when she asks about his hand, and he grins. "Well. Perspective, yes? Do I have your hand or do you have mine?" he asks, a bit of amusement to the words. "I don't find you boring. At all. If I did, would I come back to spend more time with you?" he suggests, watching her. "If you get the right answer, does it matter how quickly or how slowly it is that you ended up there?" he offers.

He considers what she says, weighing it a moment. "If I run with you, it would show you how fast time is for me, in my head, sort of. I can't go my fastest with you, it would hurt you, and I wish not to do that. But it would give a idea of it, a sense of it, to your perspective," he says, his brow wrinkling a moment. He doesn't want to hurt her.

Willow Rosenberg has posed:
"Usually think about something else. Or read a book." She *always* has books, even if they are Kindle. (But she really prefers paper!) "I noticed that about you. You were paying attention, even if you didn't grok me. And you did! I mean, you really did!"

That was more important for her than anything else.

Willow grins, at that, and the rejoinder of who is keeping who hanÄ?. "I guess we could wait until one of us forgets what they're doing and needs their hand?" It was one solution to the 'problem'. Of course she's grinning, and she doesn't intend to 'lose'.

"You *could* show me, but I don't have anything to show you in return." After all, with Wanda being a magic user, he's seen it before.

Rupert Giles has posed:
Rupert Giles would cringe, and probably does, every time he sees that kindle. He /still/ doesn't even have a smart phone. Nope. An old flip phone that he's had for probably the last ten years or so, at least. Giles had left the Big Belly Burger joint in Old Gotham, not a long drive from here, and had pulled out of the car park with every intention of driving home. Only he hadn't. There are blank spots in his memory, and he finds himself standing at a door. It doesn't look like his door. But it looks familiar. His keys are out and he's put the key into the lock. And tried to turn it.

Only, it doesn't work. The key doesn't turn. The lock doesn't unlock. The door doesn't open. But the sounds of him trying to turn the key surely sound into the room beyond. Afterall, the sound of a key in a door lock isn't exactly a quiet or subtle thing.

And so it is that Giles stands there, looking stupidly at the door. "Why isn't this bloody working?" He tries to turn it again. And fails. Again.

The Watcher is in quite the state. There's blood all over him, in sprays, like someone squirted him with a squirt gun. Filled with blood. And dust under the blood. Maybe he was in an explosion? There's a nice little gash to his left forehead at the front, just above and to the left of his eye. It seems to have stopped bleeding, at the very least.

His blue eyes are a little glazed, as though he's not quite focusing right on his surroundings. And his glasses are just slightly askew. His knuckles are also, of note, bloody and scraped. All in all... he looks as unGileslike as possible.

Sinister has posed:
Sinister generally speaking, does not particularly care about people. They are often annoying and quite frequently have a habit of getting in his way. THen there are persistent sorts, that get him irritated enough to think hard at and that can be very bad for the individual. But lately, he's been trying to learn. Learn about the strangeness that is called Magic and how to at least understand it when he faces it, perhaps even how to perceive it when it's about to get thrown at him. Person growth! And lately, his luck has been all over the place for his plans and successes, so the recent events in the Magic Box could be considered a spectacular uptick in recent efforts.

So imagine how annoyed the Omega class Telepath is, when one of the ones that has been helpfully explaining the basics to him quite politely and with whom he actually quite enjoyed himself... has gone all daffy in the brainpan. He is incidentally /not/ two hundred and fifty miles away from Sunnydale, so therefore it hits him in the psychic awareness like a beacon. It's a good job he can fly and doesn't give a damn about air traffic control, or such trivial things as airspeed.

Honing in on Willow's apartment, picking up on minds in the vicinity, Sinister lands on the roof of the building and has to take a breath or two to get his face and clothing looking right, before he goes window by window, until he finds the right floor to land on the fire escape of.

Quicksilver has posed:
"Thinking about something else tends to shift focus rather than slowing my brain down or turning it off," Pietro comments, giving a soft chuckle. "Reading helps, though, while the book lasts," he muses, a thoughtful tone to his voice. He often has books as well, either digital or the real thing. Then he raises an eyebrow slightly before nodding to her. "Paying attention, listening, following what you're saying... guilty on all accounts. Or at least, of trying on all accounts," he says, quirking a smile at her.

He gives a light laugh at her suggestion, and then he nods, his blue eyes showing amusement in them for a moment. "We could. Or who gets impatient," he says, winking at her. Then he snorts softly before shaking his head. "You're a witch, Willow. You could show me anything and it would be something, yes?" he suggests with a grin.

Then he hears the sounds at the lock, which sounds a lot like a key trying to be put into a lock that it doesn't belong to. It's a strange sound to be hearing here, but a familiar sound to him because, well... he hasn't lead the most honest life for all of his years. And there's a shift in his demeanour, his brow furrowing with concern. He gives Willow's hand a small squeeze and swiftly crosses to the door. "Are you expecting someone, Willow?" he asks softly, glancing to her before his attention turns to the door once again. He puts himself between Willow and potential harm from whomever might be on the other side of the door.

Willow Rosenberg has posed:
"Better than most people do." Really, she means it. "And how? How should I show you something new! Your sister seems more powerful than I. I could show you something mundane.. actually I have one thing that seems to be mine and mine alone.."

Pietro heard it first. Then she did.

"What? It's sounding like someone is trying my door." Willow adds to herself: a drunk person. She followed (belatedly) Pietro, and stood behind him. "Who is it?"

Rupert Giles has posed:
Rupert Giles hasn't always lived the most honest life himself. In fact, he's lived quite a dark life at times in the past. But now, for the most part, Giles is in the straight and narrow. He lifts his left hand and rubs his forehead, only to stop with a hiss as he gets the gash there on the left side. He lowers his hand and stares at it. He's opened the gash again, and the fresh blood is on his hand as well as leaking down the side of his face. He sighs as he stares at his hand. "Lovely," he says. Then looks at the door. And blinks. "What the bloody hell am I doing here?" He sounds.. perplexed. Very perplexed. And a little lost and uncertain. So very unGileslike.

His voice can be heard through the door. That accent and voice is pretty distinctive. But he hears Willow's voice too, and then he realizes exactly what had probably happened. He blows out a breath. "It's me, Willow. Giles. My apologies. Not sure what I'm doing here.." Still sounds uncertain. He takes a moment and withdraws the key, and tucks the whole ring back into his pocket.

Sinister has posed:
Sinister stares at the fire escape door. They're designed to only actually open from the inside -- stare, reach hand out, force the deadbolt to pop and pull it toward on its hinges. He steps inside, looking along the corridor at well... "Oh bloody hell," that gets muttered, as he closes the door behind him, glancing up at the 'exit' sign that hangs over it and sneering at his mockery of the proper order. He doesn't run, but he does hasten down the corridor, of the second floor. Now you've arrived, you're going to just stare for several moments. It's entirely the proper thing to do, whilst you try and figure out how to play this. Deep breath.

"Mister Giles, you're bleeding from the temple. From the looks of it you suffered a good-night knock. You might be having some distinct issues with your recent memory and I wouldn't be surprised if you had concussion." Doctor 'Wessex' informs. His voice too, is rather distinctive. "What in the name of ... pete... happened?"

Quicksilver has posed:
"Well, y'know... I try," Pietro says with a grin. Concentrating on and following what she says, and how she says it, helps with his rampant impatience with the world. It helps him be patient. "Besides, you make some very good points, and I like your voice," he adds, glancing over to her. "Anything that you show me will be new because it will be yours. Yes? Wanda's is Wanda's, yours is yours. They're not the same just because they're both magic," he suggests.

Even though she's come up to the door as well, he keeps himself between the door and her. If something is going to come through it, it'll get him first. What a gentlemanly thought. After a moment beyond what the man outside the door said, extremely brief to Pietro's perspective, he unlocks the door before opening it. And Giles gets a once over from the white haired fellow with the blue eyes. "It looks like you've taken a pretty good knock on the head," he observes, his brow furrowing. "Come in, come in," he offers, the words a bit quick, and he moves out of the way to allow the fellow to enter. A lot of things are a bit quick with Pietro. Neither the man he's inviting in nor the other fellow now in the hallway are familiar to him, but he's at least heard of the first! He raises an eyebrow slightly as he looks to Willow. "A first aid kit might be a good idea," he suggests. He has a mild accent to his words that's not from here but rather... from there -- Transia, a Romanian accent.

Willow Rosenberg has posed:
"True.." Willow never thought of that before.

When she sidled up behind him, just in case, she was about to tell him (or her) that they had the wrong door! To go home! When Giles was the person.

"Giles! Pietro he's a friend. A really good friend." You could say he 'Watches' over the group. "Let him in."

Rupert Giles has posed:
And that's one person Giles hadn't been expecting to see. He blinks stupidly, and his brain stalls for a moment. .... more of a moment. "Doctor Wessex." Ah, at least some of his faculties are intact. He hasn't yet noticed the door open. "Uh.. There.." He pauses and tries again, reaching up to rub his forehead once more, but careful of the gash. "I don't remember hurting my head," he says. "There was.. I think it was a bomb." Pause, the wheels of memory turn slowly, as though the gears have long been rusted together. "Cards. Court cards. Ace of Spades. Queen of Hearts. King of Clubs. Jack of Diamonds." He blinks several times before starting again. "With guns. And a werewolf. And a cat." A cat? What?

**The images are easily plucked from his mind thinking about them, the bomb going off, him being tossed from the booth he'd been sitting in against the wall the bomb had gone off in, far too close. A bright flash as his head impacted.. something. Probably the floor. Pain and a high pitched buzzing ringing, from the sound of the bomb going off practically on top of him as well as hitting his head after. Giles is lucky to be alive, from that alone, and with naught but a bump to the head. The werewolf. The popstar Andrea turning into a big black werewolf and killing two of the gunmen. A third being scratched by someone with cat ears and claws. And the last, the Ace of Spades being punched until he was down by Giles himself. How ungentlemanly. A name surfaces. Ripper.**

"I meant to drive home and.." He waves a hand toward the door. "I'm not sure how I got here." That's easy, really. The subconscious decided he needed help when things weren't working quite right and brought him to help. Willow. Willow could help. Now the unfamiliar voice registers, and he looks to the door again, now that it's open. Yup. Eyes are still a little glazed. He looks okay otherwise, at least! Just... all over blood. Could any of it be his other than the head wound?

With the door open and the invitation extended, Giles takes a step forward. The adrenaline from the fight had worn off sometime during the drive. And he is very clearly stiff and sore as he walks forward, showing every one of his fifty years. "I feel like I need a lie in," he murmurs.

Sinister has posed:
Sinister doesn't quite take a step back, but his shoulders do square back just a little. "Mmmmmn," which is a fantastic reply to all of that garbled mess, but also to the mental images that poured when concentrating on the Time occured. He is there, beside Giles, looks into the apartment beyond the front door at the figure of Quicksilver and the familiar shape of Willow. "Miss Rosenberg, if you perhaps have plenty of clean towels and a bucket just in case the urge to vomit comes trotting on by?" He exhales. "Funnily enough I wasn't expecting to -be- here, I was driving back to Sunnydale with the ahhh.. package. And something told me to come by this area, no idea why and I'm glad I did." He lies like a lying dead rug, but he does it very well.

"It's safe. Don't worry." Just a reassurance, perhaps. Where could be safer than on his person after all. "I can help here. I can actually help a darned sight more than I could for your bloodloss, mate."

Quicksilver has posed:
One of Pietro's eyebrows takes an upward quirk as he looks to Willow, and he gives a nod to her at her words. "Of course," he says softly to her, easily acquiescing to her wishes. He appreciates that she bids him to enter in addition to his own presumption. He frowns a bit at what the fellow says. "A bomb?" he can't help but to ask, curiosity and concern in his voice. That doesn't sound like anything good at all.

"Well, even if you didn't intend to end up here... here is where you are and you're welcome to be here. You should come in and sit down, I think," Pietro offers. "Maybe a cup of tea," he adds. He gives Willow a quick glance, then brings his attention back to Giles. "I'm Pietro," he offers, a smile turning the corners of his lips. "Are you hurt anywhere else besides the cut on your head? They can bleed like a stuck pig," he adds. If it's needed -- and wanted -- he'll help Giles over to the couch, though otherwise he'll simply walk at the fellow's side since he doesn't really know him beyond what few things Willow has told him.

There's a look then given to the other fellow who had been near to Giles. "You said that you can help somehow?" he asks, curious. He hasn't met the other fellow before, but the others seem to know him -- or he seems to know them.

Willow Rosenberg has posed:
Willow wears a deep frown. 'He's okay' she whispered, well, mouthed, to Pietro. "Dr. Wessex happened upon us at the Magic Box." No, she hasn't told him about that. Yet.

While she goes to gather a bowl, some towels, and various accessories, she asks Pietro to turn on the tea kettle and make the tea for all of them. "Please?" And she kisses his cheek. "Thank you."

Rupert Giles has posed:
Giles' brain really is a garbled mess right now. He pauses to glance to Wessex. "Perhaps it was a twist of fate," he says. His brow furrows, though, thoughts turning, but slowly still. "Help? You can help?" Honestly, it's just not registering just /how/ the man can help either. To the white haired fellow, his blue eyes blink. "A bomb," he agrees. "'twas.. a robbery, I think. In the building next door. Someone died. In the explosion. I.. couldn't hear afterward. Just a ringing in my head and ears." Knocked silly as well as deafened by the loud sound in the contained space.

The help to the couch is not rejected. But then, it's not really noticed either. "Tea.. tea would be good," he murmurs. "I.. don't think I'm hurt anywhere else." He's one big ache, or he might notice that his knuckles are still bleeding ever so slightly. Every time he moves his fingers, the scabs trying to form there open again. That bleeding is at least slight and sluggish.

"Doctor Wessex," says Giles. He looks to the man in question. "He's a friend. If he says he can help, I believe him." And then there's kissing. Cheek kissing, but still kissing. Giles blinks. Several times. And blinks again. He shakes his head. He can't possibly be seeing what he's seeing. "My head hurts." Of course it does! You whacked it against a floor!

Sinister has posed:
Sinister follows Rupert in thusly, shadowing him to the couch. "Yes. I can help," and he shall help, in his own way, for his own silent reasons. He glances at the nearest lamp source, floating the object closer with a look, to make the light source shine more clearly on his work surface and crouches down on his heels infront of Giles. A hand is raised, fingers spread as he looks the man in the eye, then down at the hands that ooze blood. He concentrates there, pressing middle finger and index finger down juuuuuuuuust slightly with it and gazes. TK pressure to make those veins close, to give that blood time to scab properly, then he simply stares at Giles at the side of the head, narrowing eyes on the injury where he was smacked by a /bomb/.

"Little knocks, little knocks... lets see. A thousand tiny dents," he inhales, raises his other hand toward the man's temple and goes very quiet.

<<Inside the mind, little things shift, little things block, little things open up. Blood flows where it ought to flow, swelling will have to fight against the rise of conscious thought. Pounding headaches shift to dull throbs, and down to a strange sense of pure clarity. Pick up the cards, Rupert Giles and put them back in the file folder in the right order. You can't have a card index properly alphabetized if they're all scattered. The library needs to be set to rights. And there is no more pain.>>

Quicksilver has posed:
Pietro Maximoff tilts his head a touch to one side at the so-very-quiet words from Willow, and he gives a nod to her. He believes her. He trusts her. When did that happen? "Ah, well... that makes sense, then," he says, a bit of a smile coming to his features. When she asks him to make tea for them all, he gives a nod of easy agreement -- he had sort of offered to do it, after all. And there was a kiss to his cheek, too! That wasn't expected, and it brings a bit of colour to his cheeks. "Of course, anything to help," he says softly, a smile coming to his lips.

He looks over to Giles, and then he gives a nod. "Bombs are pretty terrible and unfortunately efficient things when they're put together right," he comments. He knows a thing or three about them, unfortunately, and not for the best of reasons. "I'm sorry to hear that happened, that you were caught up in it," he adds, a concerned note to his voice.

He heads for the kitchen -- sedately, for him, no zipping about. The kettle will take -forever-. Boiling water always does. And longer for him. He fills the kettle up before placing it on a burner and turning it on, then busies himself in getting mugs for everyone. Then he leans against the counter, props one of his hands against the edge of it, and settles to do the hardest thing -- to wait. Though he does keep half an eye on what's going on in the other room.

Willow Rosenberg has posed:
A bomb!? Holy crow! At least Giles looked as though he was a the centre of the bomb going off.

"We really don't fight people who blow up banks." No, they kill vampires, and ghouls, and the like. And Willow didn't usually fight them, she had other things to do. "Here are the towels and a bowl of water. I'll get the throw up bowl underneath the sink. What were you doing at a bank robbery, anyway?"

Rupert Giles has posed:
Up until the moment that the good doctor crouches in front of him, Giles isn't really focusing well on anything. And then he's focusing on Wessex. And he doesn't move. Just sits there, still and quiet, his eyes on the man. He really was smacked by a bomb. A good portion of his right side is going to be bruised from the bomb shoving him out of his seat as it exploded. And a good portion of his left side is going to have bruises from when he landed, with force, on the floor. Namely, his elbow and shoulder, hip and knee on the right. The other side is more uniform and less impacting a solid surface. And is equally better and worse for that.

Giles' eyes follow the hand toward his temple, but he doesn't move otherwise. Just his eyes. And then when it gets to an uncomfortable direction to look in, he looks back to Wessex's face instead. And slowly, slowly, he begins to relax. Enough so, as the pounding headache subsides down to dull throbs and then to clarity, Giles' eyes close. His breathing deepens and he concentrates. On picking up those cards and putting them first back in order, and then each of the file folders they go into. And thus, each of the folders in the cabinets they go into. Until everything in his mind is once again as it should be.

Pietro's words get a nondistinct, "Mmhmm.." sort of sound. Mostly because Giles is terribly distracted and focused on one specific thing. At least, until he finishes the mental sorting and opens his eyes again. "It was no fun," he says. Only to find Pietro had already gone off into the kitchen. He'd quite missed that! "Well, I didn't mean to, Willow."

His speech is much more clear now too. Very little stuttering or hesitation that isn't usually there. "I wasn't at a bank robbery. That was next door. I was eating a burger. And drinking cold tea that was horrible." He makes a face at the mere memory of that moment. The tea, not the bomb. "I was just.. there. They blew up a wall of the bank and tried to escape through the burger place. Big something or other Burgers. Bobs? Bongo? Bonzo?" He shakes his head. "And I.. well. I couldn't stand by and do nothing when they had guns and might hurt someone innocent." That sounds like Giles.

Sinister has posed:
Sinister eases slowly back from reaching forward toward Giles' temple. He never actually touched, just used the reach as a method of focus. There is a long exhale as the man begins to talk more clearly and he stands from his crouch on his heels. The lamp floats back to where it was originally settled and lands with a perfect touchdown. There are several blinks, his skin a little more pallid than it had been previously, but he focuses then on the bucket and the towels that were brought, "The rest of the kettle, could you reserve it. I'm going to make a simple saline wash," he explains that to the person that lives there and the speedster at the helm of kettling and walks with a some steady care, to find the salt and a reasonable sized bowl. "I do hope you don't feel nauseus after that, Rupert, but it might still have a chance of raising its ugly head. But there'll be tea, which is always soothing."

Quicksilver has posed:
There's a glance across the others in the apartment, and then he brings his attention back to the kettle. Not that it's been on for anywhere near long enough to be boiling. He lifts his free hand, lightly pulling his fingers through his hair, tussling the white locks before lowering his hand. It's a fidget, for those who are familiar with him enough to know. He looks over to Giles at the fellow's words, and then he gives a nod. "Generally, bombers don't make bombs for giggles," he says, frowning a bit. He has some curiosity about the bomb, but he keeps it to himself. "Big Belly Burgers?" he suggests, raising an eyebrow slightly.

He looks then to the doctor at the request involving the kettle, and he gives a nod. "Sure, that's not a problem," he agrees, his gaze following the fellow for a moment. He shifts his weight slightly and remains leaing against the counter, keeping one of his feet flat and crossing the other over his ankle. It seems a familiar position for him, and he crosses his arms in front of himself. Waiting... waiting. And he tries not to fidget overly much, but it happens in the form of a ring he wears being twisted and turned about.

Willow Rosenberg has posed:
Really this was a normal night as far as Willow could see. In the kitchen, from underneath the sink she got the throw-up bowl. And then out of the drawers, she took an extra bowl that she left on the kitchen counter, along with an extra large sack of salt.

"Check, and check. Ready when you are, Dr. Wessex."

She brought the throw-up bowl out, and put it beside Giles. Just in case.

Rupert Giles has posed:
Rupert Giles hasn't really opened his eyes yet by the time the doctor is walking, carefully, away. "Tea. Tea is good. Are you quite alright?" Back is the observant, when he's not focused on a problem or a book, Giles. Gone is the vague Giles that doesn't know where he is. He seems to be back to normal. Bloody, but normal. He glances down at himself and his lips curl in distaste. "I could use a shower," he says. He looks up at Pietro and nods. "Big Belly Burgers. That's the one. The one in Old Gotham."

From his angle, though, he can't actually see Pietro. Nor that he's fidgeting. He glances back to the doctor. "I feel okay, now. But I'll take your word for it, just in case." Giles watches Willow re-emerge from the kitchen, now that he's focused. And nods as she places the bowl. Then he realizes that he's sitting on the couch, and he leans forward to have a look. "Oh, crap," he mutters. "I'm getting blood all over your couch." He sounds absolutely horrified at that. Like it's the worst thing that could possibly happen.

Sinister has posed:
"You'll just have to have it steam cleaned," Sinister murmurs, smiling at WIllow as the bag of salt is produced. He too, stares at the kettle for a long moment. Inhale, exhale. Hurry up. About two tablespoons of salt gets added to the bowl with a pinch on account of nothing much, to follow. "Mister Giles, I just persuaded the veins in your temple to deconstrict and narrowed the ducts that were beginning to spill cerebrospinal fluid below your dura. I am gifted with telekinesis, but that becomes that much harder when you can only know what you are doing with it, by thorough anatomical studies. I'm a little tired. A tea will be a good pick-me-up." He pauses, staring at the kettle again, in a minor hell dimension alongside Quicksilver at the laxidazical pace that the world sometimes works at.

Turning away, he suddenly seems to recall something and carefully walks back toward the couch, reaching into his leather jacket's inner pocket, pulling out well... it's a stool sample bottle but in it is fluid and a singular stone, about the size of a horse tranquilizer. He sets it on the side-table nearby the librarian, glancing over at Willow, also. "The stone. I said I would get it so you good folks could look at it. The one that made a woman emmaciated by swallowing it." And back to the kettle. HO HUM.

Quicksilver has posed:
The speedster gives Willow a smile when she comes into the kitchen for the salt, and he watches her retrieve it. He unfolds his arms and lifts a hand to lightly touch her shoulder as she passes him. A brief touch, for only a moment. And then he crosses his arms again and goes back to fidgetting the ring he wears. "There's oatmeal cookies, as well. Willow made them," he offers, giving a nod in the relative direction of the coffee table. And there is, too, a plate of them. "You could use a change of clothes, or for a load of laundry to be done," Pietro offers, one of his eyebrows quirking up. "Familiar with the Big Belly Burger. Been there a time or three," he comments, giving a small nod. He gives a soft sound, then lifts a hand to pull his fingers through his hair again. "Blood washes out. Better than you passing out," he says.

The world moves -slowly-. He shifts his weight, uncrosses his ankles, then crosses over to the stove but doesn't touch the kettle. It'll boil in its own time, and not a moment sooner. It always does. His gaze turns towards the doctor, and he raises an eyebrow slightly. "That doesn't sound like a good sort of stone," he says, a flicker of curiosity to his voice. He paces a bit, and he fidgets, and he -waits- on the kettle.

Willow Rosenberg has posed:
Ah! The next part of the evening: hydrogen peroxide.

Yes, Willow was prepared and calm.

"You aren't the first person who has bled on the couch. And don't worry, the same can be said for throwing up." Why did she have an old couch for anyways? And then it hits her, or, Pietro's words do. "oh.. OH!" Blush.

Willow crinkled up her nose, and concentrated. It didn't take any time at all. "I'm sorry Pietro. My head was elsewhere." Now she goes and gets a scrubber, a bottle of peroxide, and a pail of warm water.

Rupert Giles has posed:
Rupert Giles listens, and then nods, expression thoughtful. "Energy. Just as with magic," he says. "Your telekinesis takes energy too. It's the concept we were discussing yesterday. No energy, no result. The bigger or more extensive or complicated the result, the more energy used to achieve it." This, in a way, is a very good example of what they'd been discussing. He nods to Willow, but he doesn't look very comforted.

And then that stone is produced. Giles looks at the stool sample bottle, and reaches a hand out toward it. Curiously, he doesn't touch it, but feels the magic on it. Woven into it. It's defintely an artifact. And Giles shudders and pulls his hand back. "So much power," he whispers. "Don't.. let.. anyone touch.. that stone..."

The feel of that stone's power proves to be too much for the Watcher's freshly fiddled with head. He lifts the hand he'd reached out to touch the side of his head, and then he slumps to the side. Away from the bowl, at least. His left hand hangs limply off the couch, his right hand at about diaphram level. At least his head landed on a pillow. But his glasses are now askew.

Sinister has posed:
"Well, he didn't vomit at least," Sinister's comment is metered out with a slight startle at the sudden speed of boiling kettle. THe man looks vexed though, as if he doesn't quite know what to do in this precise moment, eyeing the stool bottle and its diabolical resident and the passed out watcher on the couch.

In the inner workings of this mind, there are many things that are going on. Being vexed is not on the cards.

"Giles?" he asks, almost tentatively. Almost hesitantly.

<<Wake up, man! This is no time to sleep.>> That is not remotely hesitant in the slightest. Nor is it tentative. <<Stronger stuff, man. Plus, you're making a mess on the couch.>> Thoughts are such a funny thing, particularly when they can easily echo one's own inner monologue.

Quicksilver has posed:
Pietro Maximoff tilts his head to one side at Willow's reaction to what he'd said, and he looks to her for a moment. There's an inquisitive sound from him as he notices the blush in her cheeks, his curiosity perked. Then he blinks, looks at the kettle and makes a surprised grunt before looking to her and quirking a grin. And he does seem impressed with her magic -- even though his sister is Wanda. "Thank you, Willow," he says, a warm and grateful tone to his voice. He steps over to the kettle then in order to retrieve it from the stove, turning the burner off before he pours the boiling water into the waiting mugs with their teabags.

He picks up the mugs of tea, and with them in hand, he makes his way to the living room in order to place them onto the coffee table. Then he looks to the stone and raises an eyebrow slightly. "Apparently not just a stone. Willow, perhaps you and my sister could create something to contain it and its power?" Pietro suggests, his tone thoughtful. He isn't overly concerned that Giles passed out -- that, well, that's explained easily by all of the everything that the fellow has been through today. But he does look over to him just to do a visual check. "I'll get sugar, in case it's wanted," he says, giving a nod. He doesn't seem bothered by the fact that he's the odd ball in the room -- no magic about him at all.

Willow Rosenberg has posed:
Now what was that?!

Whatever it was, it was powerful. Enough, at least, it has taken out Giles. Not good. Not good at all. She hoped what she has in mind will do it. She creates a bubble, for lack of a better word, to encompass the stone on its stool sample bottle, and without touching it puts the bottle in the static field.

It wasn't a fast job. In fact, Willow frowns. Sure the bubble was around, and sure is *seemed* to be working, but using her magical 'eyes' already it was beginning to break down, and soon it would be the way it was before. Perhaps stronger.

*That* was where her fears lay.

"Pietro? Could you please ask Wanda to help me? Now."

Rupert Giles has posed:
Nope. No vomit. If he knew he'd vexed the good doctor, Giles would probably feel bad. But he doesn't know. So he doesn't feel sad. In fact, he doesn't feel much of anything at present. At least, until words start to echo in his brain. Wake up. Sleep? Who's sleeping? Oh. Right. Giles is sleeping. And this is enough to startle him back awake. It takes him a good minute to crawl back up out of the darkness of unconsciousness, but he manages it. "Bloody hell," he whispers. "I seem to be making a habit of fainting." And it's getting old!

Just in time to see Willow do her magic. That never ceases to amaze him and he watches with wonder. "We just have to seal it, Willow," he says. He shifts to sit up and leans against the back of the couch. "There's a ritual. I found it this afternoon. We just need to seal it." You know Giles is a touch out of it when he repeats himself that quickly.