Thread: Pyro & Rogue

[gloves]

Who: Pyro & Rogue
When: Five-ish years after X3?
Where: Some mutant-only bar
What: Years later, old friends run into each other

It was a very typical night for Rogue. In the years since the Cure had emerged, and Alcatraz had been destroyed, and a multitude of people had been killed, she had to wonder, not for the first time, if refusing the Cure had been a mistake. It had felt like the right decision at the time. But that right decision also had her sitting in a bar, alone, on a Friday night. The alone part was mostly her own fault. She and Bobby had drifted, and in a strange way, she sort of felt like it was for the best. Not for her, but for Bobby who deserved a somewhat normal relationship. As normal as mutants could have. But that was splitting hairs. Eventually, they’d parted on amicable terms, because Bobby was incapable of being inamicable and Rogue had, somewhere along the way, made the conscious decision to let Bobby go. So it wasn’t weird when they passed each other in the halls. But Rogue definitely spent a lot more time out than she’d used to. Now, unless there was weekend training, it wasn’t unusual for her to leave on a Friday and hop a train to Manhattan. Then not come back until Saturday, midday. Occasionally she’d be gone until Sunday. She spent a lot of time wandering, usually ending up in a bar like this, where people didn’t look at her funny for the stripes in her hair or the gloves on her hands. Mutants only. So maybe it was a good idea she hadn’t taken the Cure. There were rumors that it had failed anyway, but she would have felt out of place even in this safe haven if she’d made that decision to get rid of her powers. Even if it would have ultimately ended in failure. “Might as well leave the bottle,” she said to the bartender when he came by to refill her glass. Her accent deepened, that Southern lilt more pronounced, when she’d been drinking. Especially whiskey. That was a Logan trait. She certainly had never had a taste for it before Logan. Rogue wasn't completely sloshed, not even close -- she was only going on her second glass -- but she knew how these nights went. It was easier for the 'tender to leave the bottle and she'd give it back and close out her tab once she was done.