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st_alksthroughwallsBaruch Atta Hashem Meshaneh HaBriyot was probably the appropriate Bracha for either a woman streaming through a wall or a tall man of very pale complexion, but Kitty didn't know it. For all the Hebrew she did know and the customs she'd learned or was painstakingly relearning from a chunk of Talmud that had somehow ended up in Illyana's library, Kitty honestly didn't know very much about prayers and Jewish theology except the things she did know.
Like wrestling with angels, which was what she was still doing after her bar shift ended and no one was awake to spar. She changed into a t-shirt and boy shorts, both hotel branded, and went for a midnight windwalk around the property. She noted which lights were on -- no one she wanted to talk to, and which weren't -- anyone she might have, and returned to her own room, no less tired, but smelling slightly more like sage and scrub brush for her efforts.
She poured herself a drink, and then another, and threw up her hands and went walkabout again. It wasn't anything particular on her mind tonight as opposed to any other night. Mostly she was bored, a little lonely, and less interested in swearing Russians after midnight that her regular 'barge in in the middle of the night' options allowed for.
Kitty told herself that Hathaway would still be awake, strumming his guitar, drinking Scotch, brooding melancholically over Proust or Goethe or something equally impenetrable and Germanic. She elected not to question whether she believed it as she slid herself through the walls into his room, and owing to what must clearly have been a miscalculation (not at all) ended up exactly where she needed to be to settle--or better drop herself with a small bounce across the end of his bed, to rest comfortably on her stomach.
"Hiya," she said to the darkness.
Like wrestling with angels, which was what she was still doing after her bar shift ended and no one was awake to spar. She changed into a t-shirt and boy shorts, both hotel branded, and went for a midnight windwalk around the property. She noted which lights were on -- no one she wanted to talk to, and which weren't -- anyone she might have, and returned to her own room, no less tired, but smelling slightly more like sage and scrub brush for her efforts.
She poured herself a drink, and then another, and threw up her hands and went walkabout again. It wasn't anything particular on her mind tonight as opposed to any other night. Mostly she was bored, a little lonely, and less interested in swearing Russians after midnight that her regular 'barge in in the middle of the night' options allowed for.
Kitty told herself that Hathaway would still be awake, strumming his guitar, drinking Scotch, brooding melancholically over Proust or Goethe or something equally impenetrable and Germanic. She elected not to question whether she believed it as she slid herself through the walls into his room, and owing to what must clearly have been a miscalculation (not at all) ended up exactly where she needed to be to settle--or better drop herself with a small bounce across the end of his bed, to rest comfortably on her stomach.
"Hiya," she said to the darkness.
