Like many children who grew up hungry, and poor, and cold, surrounded by the trappings of a life that was worth nothing, burdened by the knowledge that everything you owned was junk and that in a way you were junk as well; unnecessary and disposable, like many children like that, Thalia has a fondness--call it a weakness, maybe--for the finer things in life, now that she can attain them.

It's a desire that manifests itself erratically, with little grace or reason. Her apartment is the small studio the Initiative first gave her, and it looks more like a display at a store than a place where a human being lives. She eats according to her personal trainer's demands, but indulges herself with the best take-out she can buy, when she remembers that she can.

Her clothes are the nicest she can find; nothing ragged, nothing that will fall apart even though she has to keep wearing it for years and years because there's no money for anything new.

(Her father's hospital is the finest one she can afford, renowned in the tri-state area for its miracle-esque cures. She knows better than to hope for miracles, of course, but the brochure had been glossy and hopeful.)

The point to all of this is that she's dressed nicely for her date, has talked herself into a dress and glittery flats. She's kidding herself still that she can be a normal person on a normal date. It's important to remember, she knows, that just because Marisa treats her like Thalia instead of Valkyrie (so far, so far, so far, a dark voice yammers in the corner of her mind, until she gets hurt and it's all your fault) doesn't mean she is.

But she forgets. She's only human, despite what she wants to believe.

When she arrives, all the air goes out of her lungs. Thalia takes a moment to catch her breath and smiles.

"Good to see you," she starts, resisting the urge to clutch at her skirt with shaking hands. She knots them behind her back instead, bobbing forward. She's an adult. She's dated before, successfully even. She can do this.

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Smile. Not radiant like the sun, but something annihilating: a star going supernova, or the flower you crush underfoot without realizing. Thalia can't feel the heat of Comic's body next to hers, but she can imagine, and that's almost as good.

Not quite, but almost. It'll have to do for now. 

"I love Italian," she answers. "I love food, actually. And I'm so hungry I could eat--" You, her mind finishes, instinctual, and then stutters over the innuendo like a scratched record. "--a horse. Work was hectic. Burned a lot of calories. Which is silly, because it's all in my mind, but energy mutations are exhausting. My trainer actually keeps me on a 8,000 calorie a day diet when I'm on active duty so please don't judge me at dinner."

She's doing it again. Every time she's near Marisa the reins to her tongue run off somewhere into the horizon on vacation, waving at her while they sip daiquiris on a beach in Hawaii, enjoying themselves as she makes a complete rambling fool of herself.

"Let's get going," she says, trying to untangle herself from her own mess. "I don't want to be late if you have a reservation."

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"I know enough," she says hesitantly, shrugging her shoulders. "It manifested when I was young and I've had a lot of time to learn how to live with the consequences. I don't--I can't use it like I could, but that's for the best. No one should have that kind of power."

...goddamnit, she didn't come on this date to spill her philosophy on mutants. No one wants to hear that. She doesn't want to think about this. 

"I'm glad I came too," she says, latching onto the change of subject with relief. "I've been looking forward to this." Maybe that's a little too much information, but it's better than hey, let's talk about the fact that I kill people with my mind and could be even worse if I'm not careful. She doesn't notice the people staring at them on the street. She's usually more vigilant (read: paranoid) than this, but her eyes are on Marisa as they draw closer to the restaurant.

"Have you eaten here before?"

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The pause stretched onward, infinite and infinitesimal all at once, but just as Thalia is starting to feel the weight of it, Marisa bursts into motion. It shocks a laugh out of her, effervescent, the chivalry of it, and Thalia smiles wildly as she steps through the door.

Her smile turns crooked and sickly, fake as Velveeta, as the hostess/closest waitress to the door greets them. The girl snaps her gum outrageously and stares wide-eyed at Thalia as she seats them. She's either star-struck or has never seen someone with pink hair before, Thalia assumes.

Once they're alone again, tucked into a corner of the restaurant (it's pretty much all corners; it isn't very large), Thalia drums her fingers against the red-and-white checkered tablecloth as she scans the menu. 

"I'm sorry," she says, "That tends to happen." 

Most people are usually better at hiding it, though. She chews on her lip and lets her gaze drift away from Marisa, back down to the menu. There are a couple entrees she's having a hard time choosing between; she wonders if its embarrassing to order all of them.

...She wasn't lying about being hungry, though.

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Thalia raises an eyebrow as Marisa speaks, looking intrigued and disbelieving all at once. 

"I would love to see that," she says again, a little breathy. The only people who can out-eat her after a day at work are usually other superheroes. She wonders if Marisa thinks she's joking. 

(The other option is obvious, and she pushes it down, down, down to the furthest corner of her mind. It isn't that she would like Marisa less because of it, never that. But things would be different. That would be undeniable. And she likes things just the way they are right now.)

The waitress hovers nervously in the background for a few moments, before drifting over with a pen and pad in hand to take down their orders. Thalia, true to her word, goes all in: she wants the mozzarella sticks, the calamari, and two baskets of garlic bread to start, the fettuccine bolognese, the ziti with alfredo sauce and chicken breast, the eggplant parmesan, and one whole pizza of the day. Oh, and a coffee.

"Even if you don't eat like me," she says, crescent moon smile firmly in place,"We're probably going to need to pull up a second table." 

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If Marisa's cut-off statement weren't already enough, even if there wasn't an ugly scar of an expression cutting its way across the other woman's face, making the blood boil in Thalia's veins, even if it weren't for all of that: the hand on her shoulder would be enough. The weight of it. The memory.

"Get your hand off of her," Thalia says flatly.

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Does he think she's joking? Does he think she's playing with him, this man jabbing his finger at her, with his gold teeth gleaming dully, with this face that she wants to smash into the table until the table gives way, splinters burrowing through the fleshy rolls of his skin, arrowing through the juicy meat of his eyes--

There's a poem, she read once, the line that had stuck with her for a long time afterwards. I remember your eyes: fifty attack dogs on a single leash. That's what she is now, half-rising out of her chair, her vision locked laser-red and ruthless on that hand digging into Marisa's shoulder.

But there is a leash. There are dozens of them, actually, binding her like iron, cutting into her skin with precision. They know exactly how to restrain her, and where. She can't make a scene. She's in public. He knows who she is. They all know who she is. Valkyrie flipping tables in Arkham is exactly what she's supposed to avoid, exactly what she's left behind. She's traded her past for a shot at saving herself and that means--

That means she settles back into her seat as Marisa speaks, feeling like a dog called to heel, feeling lower than that, anger still singing a storm in her chest.

"You can take care of business without touching her," she says. One-track mind. Fangs bared. There's a headache growing, throbbing, behind her temples and she can't summon the urge to heal it before it settles in.

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