all_inclusive | Entries tagged with zz: angelica petrocchi

Any entries earlier than this were pre-reboot.

Winsol has always been Jaenelle's favorite time of year and while she does not always spend as much time in the hotel as some, she usually tries to get back in time to celebrate part of the holiday with those she's come to be friends with here. It's a strange little place, a go-between not unlike Ebon Askavi or other places in her own world but strangely, none of her friends from home have ever been able to come through.

She guesses this is one of those things that are hers and hers alone. It wouldn't be the first and Jaenelle would be shocked if it were the last. To be what she is means to be singular and alone for the entirety of her life, for the good of others instead of herself. None of that mattered during Winsol, though, and Jaenelle intends to enjoy it.

Another holiday coincides with it here in the hotel, something called Christmas, and it seems to be a younger and tamer festival than she's used to. Still, some of the trappings are the same and unlike last year, Jaenelle has gotten a handle on the delicate touch needed to make the fairy lights twinkle and the boughs appear to drop snow of their own accord.

She's currently bewitching mistletoe to hop from door to door simply because it amuses her to see people try and avoid it but she can't quite get the spell right. It isn't exploding, which is progress, but it's hardly doing what she wants it to.

"Come on," she cajoles. "Please work?"

apetrocchi

Angelica had attended eight different schools in the last six years, and learned magic, ballet, invisibility, diplomacy, flying, strategy, lock-picking, and the pursuit of excellence, among other things. These were all interesting skills that she was sure would come in useful, but she would trade everything she'd learned for the sense that she'd somehow lost along the way.

The sense that there was somewhere that she belonged.

The door to Casa Petrocchi swung shut behind her, and Angelica drew a deep breath, trying not to cry. They'd given her room to her tiny cousin Isidora. They'd told her she could sleep in the guest room.

She, Angelica Petrocchi, sleep in the guest room at Casa Petrocchi?

She couldn't possibly do that. She'd rather go beg for a room at Casa Montana.

Turning back, Angelica opened the door again, only to find Casa Petrocchi gone, replaced by a generic hotel room. Maybe it was her hotel room, she knew she'd been assigned one. Maybe the hotel was trying to tell her something, just like her family was. You can't go home again?

Standing in the hallway, staring at that room, Angelica choked back a sob.

shes_biochem

Simmons has managed to find the most wonderful, impossible thing.

In the midst of everything happening back home that she's not even close to ready to cope with -- whatever is happening to Skye, what did happen to Tripp -- she'd decided that she needed time before her mental shields broke down and she cracked and had a nervous breakdown fit to rival the very worst. One day had turned to two and then somehow has drawn out to just over a week, but she feels better and relaxed and now she's standing outside of a very blue, very locked, very real seeming TARDIS that just happens to be parked in the lobby of the Nexus.

"Excuse me," she asks the concierge. "When did this arrive?"

They rattle off something about how they've never noticed it and isn't it funny that they have a police box and would Simmons like security called. She shakes her head urgently and turns her attention back to the TARDIS as her childish heart sings with excitement. She tries the door another three times, opens the phone, looks for a key (or better yet, the man who owns this box), but nothing seems to be working. It almost seems like it could be a prank. Surely the Doctor couldn't be real. Surely this isn't actually happening.

She drags one of the comfortable lobby chairs over to set up shop right outside of it, chin perched on her hand as she stares up at the TARDIS and wonders whether this is another of those things where reality and fiction manage to merge and mix, creating a result that gives her this. And of course, that cowardly part of her heart can't help but wonder if she can't break in and manage to steer her and all the people she cares about away from what's been happening.

"Brave heart, Jemma," she instructs herself, a sad smile on her lips as she crosses her legs in front of the TARDIS and waits for an owner or an explanation or anything in between.

regimes_fall

Natasha had taped her hands before going to the hotel gym. She had bound them in a way that was almost entirely foreign to her, as rarely did she ever fight so up close and personal. Punching and walloping her opponent to death had never and would never be her style for obvious reasons, and still it had felt nice to stand in front of the weighted, heavy punching bag and drive her fist into it again and again. She’d only sent it rocking, never outright swinging, as it was perhaps too heavy for her. She had wished for the strength of someone like Steve Rogers, who could’ve knocked it across the room and put a nice split down the side with a single punch. That had to be nice and satisfying.

All that being said, she wasn’t glum or even angry, but instead restless in a way that was both foreign and alarming to her. She didn’t want to run through another door and she didn’t want to drink. She had put the Valentine’s Day roses that had been sent to her in a vase together and had spent too long thinking on them, which was far less her style than even anything she’d decided to go do to the punching bag immediately after. She wasn’t sure what she wanted to do or where she wanted to go, and she found herself then freshly showered in the gardens of the Nexus, sitting in a bit of sunlight with her hands aching only a bit and a half eaten club sandwich from the bistro sitting beside her.

She felt not at all at home amongst the flowers and greenery, but she liked it all the same.

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