un_gloved | (no subject)

Entry tags:

(no subject)

Rogue's room had the air of one that was unlived in. It had been almost half a year since she'd begun sleeping at other people's places. Mostly Spike's, a few times Wolverine's, but almost never in a room alone. She spent time her in her room, and kept things there, but it didn't feel the way it had when it had been constantly a mess and fully hers.

That kind of thing seemed to be going around. At least, her room wasn't the only thing that felt half-alien and unfamiliar.

After more than two hours of not moving, Rogue's eyelids twitched. Her lashes fluttered open and she took in the room with a calm, steady gaze. Not sedated- not any more- although a certain lethargy clung to her initial movements, turning her head and and shifting against the mattress, pushing herself up on her elbows and frowning a little as her head fell forward, heavy.

"Mnh."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

She brought her hand up to drag the knuckle of her thumb across the space between her eyebrows.

"...Madrox," she murmured, dropping the hand and squinting over at him.

"You look comfortable."

"And you sleep like the dead," he said, and despite not getting an answer either way, he held the glass out for her to take, stretching himself forward across the space between the two beds instead of simply standing. "You're not, are you?"

It was a question worth asking.

"No more than you," she said, accepting the glass, and it was clear in the gesture and the lack of any accent that someone else was behind the wheel. She drank the whole glass before setting it aside, and watched him with a sort of sarcastic, ironical tilt to her eyes and mouth.

"At the moment."

Edited 2010-08-20 05:49 (UTC)

"Ah," he said dryly, showing little evidence of his grim realization that Rogue wasn't, in fact, present at the moment. He settled back onto the bed, though he did do away with the pillow in his lap, pushing it to the foot of the bed so that he could clasp his hands in front of him instead, and press his elbows to his thighs. "To whom do I owe the pleasure?"

"Only your favorite person in the whole wide world," she replied, mimicking his posture but drawing her own feet up onto the bed even as she edged back so her shoulders were against the wall behind her.

Yup. Should've kept my shoes on.

"We don't have favorites," he pointed out, eyebrows arched as he considered Rogue in front of him. In essence, she was like an imperfect mirror -- the body was all wrong, but every mannerism was there. "We. Heh. Almost makes us sound like the--"

"-Borg," she finished for him, raising one eyebrow and looking unimpressed.

"Too bad everyone here is from the rebooted franchise."

"You know, now that I think about it, Layla kinda looks like..." Jamie started, then quickly trailed off when he remembered where he was and whom he was keeping company. He straightened almost immediately, stopping short of actually getting up. The beauty about dealing with himself was that, theoretically, he knew no one better, but the disadvantage in that very fact was just as apparent -- in her present state, Rogue, too, would know no one better than him.

"Never mind. Are you aware of what's going on?"

"You mean the fact that I'm wearing an A-lister like a disturbingly well tailored suit?" she said, carding slender, tapered fingers back through her hair.

"Yeah, I picked up on that."

"Disturbing's a good word for it," he murmured, pinching the bridge of his nose for a moment before he let his hand drop back in to his lap.

Talking to myself is not as strange an experience as it could be. I mean, this sort of thing, well... It used to be the very definition of my normal. Sure, some the specifics have obviously changed, but after over a year of relative quiet, it's like stepping back into my comfort zone. I can only hope Rogue's okay in there. I'm not always the greatest of house guests, but God only knows who else is in there.

"How much control does she have?"

"Right now?" she said, glancing at the ceiling.

"None. She's still out. When this happens, it's a mental dog pile to see who gets to take a turn in the cockpit. Doesn't happen much. Only lately."

"Does external stimulus play a factor regarding who 'wins'?" he asked, lifting his hands only long enough to perform the requisite sarcastic air quotes. "For example, if I hadn't been here, would someone else be driving right now?"

She shrugged, folding one hand over the other.

"It's not exactly a science. You see an opening, you go for it. There are a few old friends in here that don't make it easy- and a lot of them that aren't aware of the situation at all." She looked more put-upon than anything, but the undercurrent to her last sentence was all seriousness.

"I take it that that's what caused the... commotion," he said, hazarding an educated guess. At the very least, he could count on himself to be thorough. That is, if he could count on himself, period. "An old... friend who wasn't aware?"

"Italics and all, yeah," Rogue said.

"Pretty typical drama for the X-Men. Super-powered jilted lovers from the Big Easy. And they're not even trying to be noir." As if spurred by her own comment, she cast about the room for anything resembling a trench coat, or at least anything not resembling girl's pajamas, and came up short.

"Well, it's like a regular day in the neighborhood around here, isn't it?" he said, filing that bit of information away for later, though its usefulness to him remained unknown. "I'm even stuck babysitting myself again. Haven't done that since the government days. And talkin' about the government days... When are you from, anyway?"

"Remember that one time we killed a hangar bay full of Hydra agents?" she asked.

"After that, but only because we'd been on the island for a while. Pretty much from then."

Edited 2010-08-21 17:04 (UTC)

Jamie blinked, not quite thrown, but a little surprised all the same. Why, exactly, he couldn't quite pinpoint, other than that particular event had been so long ago, now, that it wasn't one he thought about regularly. In spite of the circumstances, he'd been relatively optimistic, then. The thought was almost surreal.

"Well, you haven't missed out on much."

"I had a sneaking suspicion," she said, then nodded a little in his direction.

"Nice tattoo."

"You like it?" he said, eyebrows lifting as though he was genuinely pleased by what she'd -- he'd? -- said. "I mean, I'd been thinking about getting this cute, little butterfly tramp stamp, but I figured this fit in better with the whole noir aesthetic we've been working lately."

"Hey," she said, "did you ever wonder at the fact that none of the dupes we'd found and reabsorbed were transgendered? Hair dresser, sure. Tranny, not so much."

Any other person might be offended at the very suggestion. Me? I've actually missed this. I used to fantasize about being alone in my head, but in a classic case of being careful what you wish for, this past year has been hell without a dupe to bounce ideas off of. Most of the time it feels like I speak my own language that others only half-understand. I'm destined to forever be misunderstood.

"Maybe we're just not wired that way," he replied with a pinched look.

Rogue watched him closely, not moving for a few moments, before she crossed her arms under her chest and her legs at the ankle.

"How'd you get it?" she asked.

"Oh, you know how it is," he said loftily, examining his nails as an excuse to not meet her gaze. "One minute you're staring down a glass of scotch, the next you're waking up to the business end of a needle coming at your eye. No biggie."

"All right, wise guy," she said, "who gave it to you?"