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Home For the Holidays (IC)


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Chicago, Illinois

December 23, 7PM

Snow drifted lazily down through the sky and through the street lights' illumination of nearly empty streets. The only disruption to the picturesque scene being the sudden appearance of cloud of red and white smoke appearing in the middle of one of the house's driveway. The shorter of the pair seemed to wobble for a minute before leaning against her companion in his very stylish coat.

After a minute for the world to stop spinning, the white haired girl lead them up to the front door and rang the doorbell. Only a few second passed between the time Victoria had rung the bell and the door opened to an almost mirror image of the girl. The woman in the door practically screamed in delighted surprise before scooping the girl up in hug and speaking in Russian.

"Glad to be home Mom," she said with a smile before waving over her companion, "Since I was coming home, I thought I'd bring somebody you and Dad would like to meet. This is Morgan Crowe, my boyfriend."

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  • 2 weeks later...

Snow was whacked off a flat 'at, and a head with tousled black hair and sharp features lifted up at the mention of his name. He'd stopped with a rather surprised face at the amazing family resemblance, then tried to keep up for all of ten, fifteen seconds with what very little Russian Vicky had managed to drill into his head. Needless to say, he'd gotten lost a few words in.

As-is, Morgan Crowe simply returned his cap to the top of his head, and put his hands back into the pockets of his favorite pea coat - elbow resting on that ubiquitous battered duffel bag he took everywhere these days. For a second, he thumbed the silver ring around his right hand index finger, and smiled in a very warm manner. Crow could go on vacation for a bit - this was definitley a Morgan situation.

"Ãthas orm bualadh leat*, Mrs. Knight - sorry to just descend like this, but Vicky was very...determined. Morgan Crowe, at your service."

...hells, he even did a little bow. Someone had seen The Hobbit a few too many times, methinks.

"Ãthas orm bualadh leat" = "Pleased to meet you."

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Natasha looked the young man up and down with an appraising eye. After a second she smiled and said, her Russian accent thick, "Welcome to our home." Ushering them inside, the smell of freshly baked bread wafted from the kitchen mixing with the scent of the recently set up Christmas tree. The effect on Victoria was near instant, making her relax visibly. As her mother headed back for the kitchen she called out, "How was your flight?"

Before Morgan had a chance to answer her however, Vicky spoke up. "Well, given we met at the Meta-Human High, there wasn't much of an issue with just using the 'poofs' to get in."

Just as she finished, a cloud of smoke similar to her own appeared next to her. Arms reached out and pulled her into another hug before the smoke had a chance to dissipate. When it did, a man in his mid-forties with black hair graying slightly at the temples was setting Vicky back on her feet. He turned to Morgan and held out a hand, "John Knight. You must be Morgan."

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  • 2 weeks later...

Morgan - slightly unconsciously - stood at attention as she looked him up and down, keeping his spine straight, his posture proper, and his chin up. What else could he do? His girlfriend's mother, a woman he was quite determined to make a good impression on, and with his girlfriend right beside him? That, and the woman practically radiated Authority.

The fact that she was an ex-KGB super-spy who could probably kill him in ten different ways with a soup fork before he could even blink never entered into his thoughts.

He'd just opened his mouth to reply when Vicky slid in neat as you please; his jaw closed with a snap and he just nodded alongside her in agreement. Heh. There really were benefits to teleportation; Vicky's kind, that is. No way he could manage cross-state, not without being blown into a dozen itty-bitty Crow breezes floating northwards towards Canada. Magic was irritating that way...anywho.

Again, he'd just opened his mouth again to offer a second opinion when, metaphorically speaking, all hell broke loose. When the cloud of smoke appeared beside her, however, Morgan had a knife in his hand and in a reverse-grip faster than anyone could blink. And the second he saw the hug, it disappeared in the space of a thought; bloody hells, he was jumpy! Instead, the hand that held the weapon went out and took the father's - shaking it in a solid grip.

"Morgan Crowe - I've heard a lot about you, Mr. Knight." ...which he'd probably heard from a truly staggering assortment of supervillains and opposing spies. Bugger. Redo! "Uh, I mean, Vicky's talked up a storm whenever, uh, parents have come up?"

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  • 2 weeks later...

Vicky's mother looked out from the kitchen, eying the hand clasping her husband's. "Nice trick with that knife. Though if you're going to pull one, you can come in and help me chop vegetables," she said without a hint of a Russian accent in her voice.

Teleporting into the kitchen herself, the younger of the white-haired women gathered from the cupboards plates, glasses, and silverware, "I'll set the table," she added before poofing again to move a total distance of roughly ten feet.

With Vicky out of the kitchen and the younger couple's bags sitting by the foot of the stairs, Natasha spoke quietly after passing over a few potatoes and taking some carrots for her own section of counter, "I just need those cut into quarters. If you're quick with that, you can slice the meatloaf." Then her next words were spoken just as casually, "So, you're Morrigan's boy?"

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Back up a few seconds.

Morgan had, fortunately, had the good grace to look abashed when she commented on the knife trick; sometimes his innate jumpiness was helpful, sometimes it did end up being slightly embarassing. Mathair na trocaire, he was ending up worse than John. Myrmidon would laugh his armor off. If he ever laughed. Or found out. Which he probably wouldn't. Joy.

"Yes, ma'am." He replied smartly; nodding swiftly to Mr. Knight in what he hoped was an amiable manner, and trying to look cheery - honestly, chopping vegetables wasn't any major thang for him; an only child living with a dad who a lot of the time had to teach evening classes, you learned to do the small things around the kitchen. Though why his dad insisted that he not prep a hot meal for after those classes rather bewildered him; Patrick Crowe was always ravenous when he got home.

Meh. He was up in front of the counter, one of the throwing knives having manifested again to facilitate the chopping of said spuds into small quarters. Not the most conventional use, bu-whatdidshesay?


Blink. Blink-blink. Realization. Resignation. Crap. Double-crap. The Talon had seemingly embedded itself a good few inches into the cutting board when she'd said that, and as he pulled it out and returned to chopping, his face adopted a flat, somewhat neutral mean. And, as before, he picked his words very carefully. "...not by choice."

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The older woman raised an eyebrow, watching her daughter's boyfriend struggle to pull his knife out of her cutting board. "None of us have a choice. A former comrade of mine, Dimitri Peshkov, turned up not too long ago. Not the first time he's done so either, though the last time was about five years ago, testing Victoria for any signs of magical aptitude..."

After a pause she rapidly sliced the carrot in a blur, each slice exactly as thick as the one before it, before she continued. "Anyway, this time was more of a social visit. He thought I should be made aware of exactly who my daughter was dating. There was also mention of him trying to get you and Victoria to relocate to Moscow."

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  • 2 weeks later...

"If Vicky wants to go to Moscow, I'll buy a big furry hat." Shrug.

Oddly enough, he wasn't lying. If Victoria wanted to go to Moscow, back to the old country, and wanted him along...well, he'd go, of course. Granted, it'd be a ruddy nightmare finding a place to stay, and it'd be stretching Parkhurst's portal system to it's absolute limit, but eh. He'd deal with it. As-is, he was more impressed with her facility with a knife and a carrot. After he pried the throwing knife free of the cutting board, he tried to match it - nowhere near as fast, but nearly as accurate and roughly as clean. Youngsters these days, go figure.

"And please tell me Vicks doesn't know how to use magic. She can already bench-press a bus, it'd shatter my precious ego into teeny tiny fragments if she could also rip portals in reality or summon mighty elementals." A crooked smile, and he finished dicing up the veggies with deft flicks of the wrist. It seemed his sense of humor might be halfway there, at least.

"Though...okay, I admit it'd be wicked cool."

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"Well, she doesn't have any level of natural aptitude for wizardry that he could find. But then again he didn't detect signs of her inheriting our powers either. And from what I've heard, she's up to tanks, not buses," Natasha said with a wink.

After finishing the carrots, Natasha reached into the oven and pulled the still sizzling pan of meatloaf out. Putting the pan on the counter she wiped the splatters of grease off her hand. Noticing he had finished his task she added, "Thank you for the help Morgan. Why don't you sit with Vicky in the livingroom?"

Victoria, for her part, was sitting on the couch. When Morgan joined her she whispered, "I couldn't help but overhear some of that conversation. Don't worry, moving to Moscow isn't high on my priority list."

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  • 9 months later...

Morgan hopped over the back of the couch, landing pretty light; it helped he didn't weigh much. A sigh, and his head flopped backwards on the couch cushions; he threw a bit of a wry grin her way. "Ah, cool - I don't pick up languages fast, and my Russian kinda sounds like I'm gargling around gravel."


Putting it mildly there; he'd tried to compliment her once in that language after reading a dollar-twenty-five cent dictionary, and what he'd actually said likely would have made her mother knock his block off. Or use one of those several dozen spork-murdering methods to render him into his component parts. The grin turned warmer, and he gave her a one-armed hug around her shoulders. He was...surprisingly approachable, today.


"Thanks for inviting me, Vi. Thought with how I've...well, with how things..." Get onto a different topic, man, danger zone danger zone. "...so, who's this Uncle Dimitri I keep hearing about?"

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"No, it sounded more like uncooked potatoes and bad carp," she replied with a playful grin.  "And it was getting better.  It's my Irish that still sounds terribad."


Vicky all but melted into the hug, the first one in too long.  'Something we do need to have words about' she thought.  At his question about Dimitri, "Less uncle and more associate of mom's.  He's a hold-over from the old soviet days, still thinks they had it right and America's both too soft and too self-important."


Letting out a contented sigh, the snow-haired teleporter rested her head on her boyfriend's shoulder, "I've missed this Morgan.  For my part, I'm sorry about sacrificing personal time to keep up with college and protecting Freedom."

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Morgan's reply was muffled in her hair when he kissed the top of her head; staring at a spot on the wall rather than at her when she melted into his side. The voice was quiet right now - either it was asleep (fat chance), or feeling generous. Whatever the reason, he was far more relaxed than he really should have been.


"I wouldn't call your Gaelic terribad - " He noted rather dryly. "- but I wouldn't go ordering a beer in a pub unless you've got a bar brawl in mind."


Sigh. A small chuckle, that vibrated from his chest, through his shoulders, and into the ear against his shoulder. It was a good chuckle. "...don't worry about the college, Vi - we both knew the occupational hazards going in. And...a big part of that's my fault, anyway."


More than part, truthfully. He kept staring at that invisible spot on the wall, leaning his head sideways onto hers; creating a companionable silence. It lasted for all of two minutes before he spoke again. "...if it helps? I think I can order a drink in Russian now."

Edited by Quinn
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"I'm pretty sure even I can order a beer correctly, it translates in just about any language.  'Guinness'," she said and held her hands up to show about the size of a pint glass.  "And besides, it isn't like I can't avoid a drunken brawl pretty easily."  She contemplated teleporting to Morgan's other side to emphasize her point but the hug just felt too good.


With a mildly teasing voice the artist replied, "Well, I was trying to let you off a little easy but yes, there's plenty of blame to pass around."  Linking their hands so she could touch the ring she had gave him so long ago she added a bit more seriously, "But whatever comes our way, we can handle it."


Recalling their minimal cross-language talks she had to grin, "Huny, ordering zavarka at a Moscow bar will likely get you at the very least some odd glances and at worst lead to the same brawl I'd get in Dublin."

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