un_gloved | (no subject)

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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."

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"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?"

"I wasn't in the position to be asking names," he said frankly, his eyes flicking upward to meet Rogue's gaze. He'd told others the story with barely batting an eye, but there was no point in getting into it again with someone who didn't really exist, too painful to keep reiterating, let alone to himself. "Can you just drop it already?"

"You do remember you're not actually talking to Rogue, right?" Rogue said, eyebrows ratcheting up.

"I mean, you have met me."

"I have. Which means I know you oughta be grateful I'm being reticent right about now, because I've lived a lifetime since I was you," he replied, understanding, not for the first time, why it was that people called him so damn annoying. "Depressing myself is something I'm trying to grow out of."

"How's that going?" she asked, looking skeptical and still a little narrowly at having the answer withheld.

"Great, can't you tell?" he replied, flashing her -- himself -- a grin worthy of the Cheshire cat.

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