"I know I'm fine, I told you I'm fine," Mary Grace responds, tense and defensive, and she takes a full step away from the edge. "And the sixty-eight people who died from broom and other magical air travel accidents last year also thought they were fine."
Mary Grace knows that stat isn't particularly relevant, but there aren't any stats for people who died in magical dimensions controlled by drunk cicadas, and she doesn't trust that Pocket knows just how breakable humans are.
Still, her pride is on the line, and to show just how fine she is, Mary Grace takes peels her hand off the edge of the basket and folds her arms across her chest. "See? Fine. I trust the party bug as much as you do."
Chanel mirrors the stance. "Sixty-eight, huh." Her voice is flat, relatively unimpressed, but the fact that she doesn't give Mary Grace a litany of other, more admirable death statistics means she's trying to be sensitive.
Or at least productive, because she tries another tactic, which might preserve the other girl's pride a little more. Ostensibly, that's why she starts clapping slowly at the progress. Anger's better than worry, and she knows she can provoke at least that.
Mary Grace's face flushes at the yclapping, and her fists clench. "Oh, fuck off," she snarls and makes a grab for one of Chanel's arms, and she hates the way her heart skips a beat when the basket wobbles under her feet.
Ah. Yes. Perfect. Ordinarily, Chanel could’ve dodged the grab, but she doesn’t want to. The approach seems to be working. She grabs Mary Grace’s arm right back, closing distance and honestly just asking to be punched. “Or what?” She adds fuel to the fire.
Edited (Posts this quick to establish how many bruises later, Alex I’m sorry ) 2019-11-24 06:16 (UTC)
The possibility of being puked on has, unfortunately, escaped her mind now. Chanel's rarely one to throw the first punch. And she doesn't now. She just exercises every inch she has over the other girl, and shoves at her arm, dismissive, but consciously light enough to not send her tumbling. "You're not going to try anything." She says, knowing precisely what end this will bring.
Mary Grace grits her teeth. If she stays right here, in this moment, then she's not thinking about the sky outside and how fucking flimsy the bottom of this basket is and just how easy it would be to fall and who even knows what these wings are actually capable of and—right. She's here, in this moment, and not thinking about that.
💋💋 CHANEL & MARY GRACE 💋💋
Mary Grace knows that stat isn't particularly relevant, but there aren't any stats for people who died in magical dimensions controlled by drunk cicadas, and she doesn't trust that Pocket knows just how breakable humans are.
Still, her pride is on the line, and to show just how fine she is, Mary Grace takes peels her hand off the edge of the basket and folds her arms across her chest. "See? Fine. I trust the party bug as much as you do."
💋💋 CHANEL & MARY GRACE 💋💋
Or at least productive, because she tries another tactic, which might preserve the other girl's pride a little more. Ostensibly, that's why she starts clapping slowly at the progress. Anger's better than worry, and she knows she can provoke at least that.
💋💋 CHANEL & MARY GRACE 💋💋
💋💋 CHANEL & MARY GRACE 💋💋
💋💋 CHANEL & MARY GRACE 💋💋
"Or," she takes a step closer and looks Chanel dead in the eye and quirks one eyebrow. "We might just find out what else it is they do up here."
💋💋 CHANEL & MARY GRACE 💋💋
💋💋 CHANEL & MARY GRACE 💋💋
"So then what'd you bring a girl up here for?"