DR. DOLITTLE

{ana de armas, thirty-six, cis woman, she/her} || cordelia levy is a mutant with the ability of zoolingualism. they’ve been in new york for one year where they spend most of their time as a guidance counsellor at xavier’s. when i think of them, i think of the soft purrs of the lions she trained, the faint sound of circus music playing while she studies in the back room, scars littering her skin that tell so many stories, a friendly face to lend an ear. they are affiliated with the xavier institute.

ARC ONE FINALE RECAP!

         lips tugged off toward one side, the only answer ezra gives is silence. she knows what he means, and he’s well aware of that fact. she’s just hoping he’ll tell her otherwise. he won’t. “i know, i know.” but does he really? “i’ve been… trying to keep away from it. it’s just too damn easy to fall back into it like that. feels like i’m doomed to disappoint myself.”

Finley nods in acknowledgement, a half of a smile on her face as she enters her office. It’s natural to be nervous, she imagines. She’s going to share some of her deepest traumas with someone who is nearly a stranger to her. Of course, she seems nice enough, and it is her job after all, but Finley can’t help but feel the grip of anxiety over the idea of sharing these details. Settling into the nearest seat, Finley finds herself fidgeting with the drawstring of her jacket as she nods. “I know it’s not much of a mystery that I was held captive by the Brotherhood and stabbed in front of an audience. And tortured. But, the recovery hasn’t been running very smoothly for me.” Would it be running smoothly for anyone? “I’ve been dealing with panic attacks, nightmares, and some insomnia since it happened. It’s taken its toll.”

          @cordelialevy​ !!

         “i thought i was doing better, but i—i saw her again, and…” he sighs, head in his hands. “i had to blow off some steam, after. couldn’t help it.”

Catching the towel without looking, Jackie throws one last knife at the rushing Danger Room mannequin, before asking it to stop. She looks at Cordelia, smiling with a faint blush on her cheeks and smirks at her, wiping herself down a little before just hanging the towel on her neck. Jackie postures, raising her eyebrow at her, the dark void of her eyes scanning the information she’s giving her right now. Worried looks. Concern. Vague threats of fictitious violence. She wants me to take better care of myself. And something else, but she won’t ask about that. “Not my problem, princess. You’re grown—fix it yourself. Or join me. Working up a sweat can be fun.”

She loads the last word before smiling at Cordy—an odd, stilted thing that she never could master. “I’ve eaten. I can go a couple of hours without food, but why would I want to? Can’t risk passing out in the middle of a session,” she says, practicality above all. “What? You worried about me, or is this your professional therapist shtick talking?”

“You know, hotshot, you’re going to give me Disney Princess syndrome if you keep calling me that.” Cordelia bites her tongue, holding back from saying something a little too flirtatious in response to the ‘working up a sweat’ comment. The Institute is full of gorgeous women, but she knows that mixing work with pleasure would be a terrible idea. Still, she can’t help herself. She winks at Jackie, takes another bite out of her sandwich. “You wanna work up a sweat with me, Rumley? Now you’re talking.” Her tone is jovial enough for it to come off as nothing more than a harmless joke. 

“I think she’s a little upset with it.” While her ability was nice for others, it wasn’t nice for a little girl who wanted to see some real action. “She can only use it when she’s here with everyone but when we’re home… she pouts to herself. It’s just not cool enough to her.” 

“What did you do to it?” boredom is the only reason she continues to entertain this stranger. “Never considered it, but maybe I should.” That would be a fun, idle fantasy. Run off to Europe, either take a man with her or friend one there. “Do people actually wear berets and cycle around like that?” she asks, skeptical that this stranger ever actually lived there if she’s talking to, and, apparently has beef with a pigeon she’s given a stupid name.

Frances had spent this morning running on nothing beyond coffee, cigarettes and a shit tonne of breath mints. Maybe, she thought, if she continued her coffee, cigarettes and added a baguette in she could, for a moment, pretend she’s simply being European and Cool. Not a harried woman who was too busy with the pool boy (clichéd, she knows)  to get up early enough this morning. Some weird bird lady, who’s far too pretty to be a weird bird lady, starts talking about the pigeons as though they’re making some coordinated attacks. “Disgusting creatures.” She grimaces as one of the flying rats goes for the stranger’s cigarette, “Eugh. Didn’t know they’d taken up smoking too.” She rips a chunk of her baguette off, eating the bread in small chunks.