Maleficent's Reflection (Mirror)

>> "Ya know, Rose Red, your sister knew better that to wash her teeth into the wishing well."

Two things. One: her mirror was talking back.

Two: her mirror was back talking.

Maxine picked her toothbrush out of its cup, and pointed it like an imperial scepter. “Don’t you sass me, Mirror. I’m the one asking the questions, here.”

She resisted, with all due force of early morning lethargic will power, the urge to look over her shoulder. She could see the bathroom door: still shut. She could see the edge of her tub: Rex, trying to open her shampoo bottle again. If anyone had actually been there, he’d have noticed. If any man had actually been there, he’d be a lot less hospitable than he was being to that shampoo.

On closer inspection, Maxine wasn’t sure that ‘man’ was the word she was looking for. ‘Cute’, ‘tempting’, and ‘jail bait’ came to mind, though. Yummy. Mutant, right? She was going to go with mutant. Hallucinations weren’t allowed: she was putting her foot down on that issue, and that was that: no hallucinations. Not until after her coffee.

Maxine poked the end of her toothbrush against the little treat’s reflection. Against his forehead, to be precise. She leaned in closer, her stomach pressing against the sink.

“Now,” she stated, “we’re going to try this again. This time, you answer, or it’s to the flea market with you. Kapeesh?”

“Mirror Mirror on the wall,
Ditch the sarcasm once and for all.
Tell me once and tell me true:
Can’t I just go out with you?”

Sign of desperation #42: hitting on your bathroom mirror.

Aww, and then he went into shock. That was adorable.

Then he stepped out of her mirror, and into her life.

Maxine blinked, eyes wide.

>> "Well, I don' know 'bout other mirrors ya've dated, but I wouldn't mind knowin' your name first."

Definitely mutant. Or dream. Or, if this was a hallucination, it was the cutest one she could have hoped for. Her lips pressed down together; quivered a moment; then split into a grin.

“You are so cute!” She squeaked, her hand pouncing for his hair. If it landed, there would be ruffling afoot. Cute, and taller than her by a good few inches—she could wear heels around him. Small heels, but still: heels. That was always a plus.

“How old are you? Are you legal? What kind of power was that? Are—Rex! Down boy!”

Well, that ruled out hallucination. Rex didn’t usually attack the kneecaps of those. From behind. With eight tentacles, very determined to wrap themselves on. Her ever-vigilant, ever-disapproving chaperon.

>> "What the f***?!"

The death of that cocky smile was heartbreaking. Truly. She’d seen it before, on many a face before his. Two minutes ago, they’d met: ten seconds ago, they’d met face-to-face. Now, their relationship was already at its first trail.

She could see the understanding dawn in his eyes.

>> "Um... Is this thing a pet of yours?"

Kinder words than some had used. Rex returned that kindness by sending two tentacles out to grab the hand that was poking at him, attempting to pin it against the kneecap he’d already conquered.

It was hard to ignore an octoclip that was defending your honor. Maxine gave a toothy, sheepish grin. It matched her boxers.

“I’m Maxine,” she said, offering her hand. She strategically offered it so that he could shake back with the hand he wasn’t battling an octopus with. “That’s Rex. He scares off boys.”

“And you are?” Yes, she was trying to hold a cheerful introduction, while her pet paperclips tried to cut off the circulation to his leg. Yes, she was succeeding.

Yes and yes: she’d done this before. Many times. Really, she should thank the overprotective heap: most girls had to rely on their own judgment to filter out potential suitors. She just had to latch herself on to the ones who didn’t run.

He kissed her hand, and went down on one--

>> "... no kidding."

Oh. Well, maybe the one knee thing wasn’t as chivalrous as first assumed. Still: the kiss was more than enough to bring a blush over her cheeks. Her freckles stood out in dark spots. This one was a keeper; he even seemed to be taking Rex’s attack well. All things considered.

>> "Ya know, there are two ways to go about takin' out an octopus. One, you gotta bite them between the eyes."

Yeah. Good luck with that. Maxine had always wondered where Rex’s “eyes” were, too.

>> "... Two, ya gotta play nice."

There was a distinct air of befuddlement in the room, as his fingers started... petting the octoclip. Scratching, even, like there was just a particularly limber puppy wrapped around his knee. Maxine gave a speechless blink.

Pet. Scratch. Pet.

Rex stilled. Completely. Every clip in his mesh came to an absolute, unnatural stop.

Then, slowly, his grip loosened back to non-crippling levels. One tentacle reached out towards the hand that had reached for it. As if experimenting with a new thing it had learned, Rex returned the favor:

Pet. Scratch. Pet.

>> "Good boy, Rex. Don't worry buddy I'm not gonna hurt ya."

It was always doubtful, whether Rex actually understood what was being said to him. Or, really, whether he understood that words had meaning at all. He certainly didn’t react to those words. He just kept testing his new skill, with a methodical sort of slowness. Pet. Pet. Scratch.

>> "I'm not gonna hurt mommy either, okay?"

The young man leaned against the wall; Maxine leaned against the sink. One of her eyebrows rose, in a you think you could? dare.

>> "Sooo ya're either a mad scientist or a mutant. And 'cuz mad scientists usually ain't this pretty, my money's on the X gene."

“Well aren’t you the charmer,” she matched him, grin for grin. “I guess I’ll leave my white coat in the laboratorium, then, when we go on our date.” Date: yep. Date. She was getting a date. Men who stepped out of her mirror in response to rhymes were obligated to a date. It was in the fine print, at the bottom of the looking glass.

>> "Name's Gawain, by the way."

Gawain, was it? She could appreciate a knight in shining blue jeans when she saw one. Maxine offered her hand down to him.

“Gawain. I like it. So, Sir Gawain, where are we off to?”

Ooo. The Lady Maxine, was it? She took a moment to eye the young nobleman up and down, visually gauging how deeply she could sink her claws into him before he’d try to run. Maybe a half-centimeter, and a cat fight with a maximum of two other girls to keep him. If he thought that was hot, she could go as high as three.

“Well, Sir,” she smirked, accepting the octoclips back; Rex promptly crawled down her arm, and back to the floor. From the floor, of course, to Gawain’s shoelaces. He had a thing with shoelaces.

Pet. Pet. Scratch.

“First, this lady is going to get herself properly attired. Then,” she tapped him square in the chest, with a final decision finger, “we are going ballroom dancing.”

Really, what else did you do with a knight?

Or with a kid you weren’t likely to see again, for that matter. There was a dance studio down the block that was always slipping spam fliers into her mailbox. Spam fliers with elegant ladies and hot dance instructors; spam fliers you couldn’t just act on alone. There was nothing worse than being the only girl who didn’t BHOB—Bring Her Own Boy.

First thing first, though: clothing. Sheep boxers and stolen shirt aside, Maxine needed some. Also, a bra. Gawain was earning massive points for not pointing out the lack of bra. She opened the bathroom door. In case he’d been wondering: she didn’t keep it closed while brushing her teeth because she was bashful.

The door opened into her bedroom. Immediately, a flock of pens rose out of the mess of her bed, and flitted around their heads. A school of singular paperclips swam inside their tightly closed fish tank, tapping at the glass. On the other side of her closed bedroom door, something thumph whack scratched savagely, trying to force its way in.

“You can wait in the living room,” she casually called over her shoulder, as she started the tough work of salvaging boy-worthy clothes out of her closet. “Do me a favor, and kick the loose leaf down the hall on your way out. I don’t want it in here.”

She held up a red something to her chest: too low cut? Yeah. Definitely. Cute, though. Maybe with another shirt underneath?

“Oh,” she tossed out. “Careful, though. I’ve muzzled it with a few rubber bands, but it still bites.”

Outside, the assault on the door continued. Inside, paperclips and ball point pens still swam. The red head didn’t pay them any mind. Welcome, Sir Gawain, to an average morning in Maxine’s apartment.

Pet. Pet. Scratch.