&&__the fourth drink {instinct} // tag Pyro

[siryn]

She's doesn't deserve to be
In no place like this, all alone
She underage and so very, very brave
Her fake ID lent her credibility
She sits at the bar
The gents are gonna try so hard

He said it was a one night stand
But the alcohol didn't let her understand
Yeah, he said it was a one night stand
A one night stand

So what made you think that he couldn't find a door in the morning?
When he found that bed so easily in the dark
What made you think that he couldn't find a door in the morning?
When he found that bed so easily in the dark

So the bartender who tends to pretend that he's concerned
Says, Girly, girly, you're at your best (you're at your best)
When you're sober
And she slurs, No, no, just one more
And one turns into four
The fourth drink instinct is taking over
And the gentleman is leading her towards the door

So what made you think that he couldn't find a door in the morning?
When he found that bed so easily in the dark
What made you think that he couldn't find a door in the morning?
When he found that bed so easily in the dark


Wow, New York, New York, otherwise the Big Apple! The skyscrapers almost made Terry's head spin and the lights partially blinded her eyesight, but it was still exciting for and Irish lass like herself, which hasn't seen much of the world.

Well, it was her first day in the instute, her first day as "Sean Cassidy's daughter", not as "the notorious mutant terrorist in the making". Terry felt relieved, with a new sense of freedom intoxicating her young mind - now, she could do whatever she wanted, without being caught by Tom's partner in crime, the Juggernaut, while sneaking out for a night out at the bars.

Yes, Terry had a bit of a drinking problem - but it was such an occasion, how could she not celebrate it? Nancy's bar seemed suitable - she didn't like those fancy clubs here and besides, Nancy's kind of reminded her of the dirty beerhouses down at Ireland.

Terry wore a black leather jacket, her flaming red hair loosely cascading down her shoulders and her blue eyes outlined with a black eye-liner - her usual outing look. She entered and without even looking around, headed straight for the bar, taking a seat down.

"Gimme a whiskey" Terry said to the bar tender with her firm Irish accent outlining her words. She could already see him smirk, naturally her rosy lips returning the favour.

"Aren't you young to be drinkin'?" He asked with a mock tone, while brushing the dirty glass with the hankerchief.

"Oh please, I'm from Ireland, man." Terry responded with an arrogant eyeroll, motioning for him to proceed with the order. He raised an eyebrow, but took out a glass and poured an amount of whiskey, giving it to Terry.

Siryn took a small sip at first, enjoying the taste as her eyes wandered around the bar. Well, she would fit in perfectly - if only there were more of these kinda places around, instead of the snobbish flashy clubs.

[Pyro]

How long had it been since Mimi’s? It should probably have worried him more, the fact that he had no idea, but whatever. What mattered was that it had been long enough for the *big boss* to decide it was safe to head out again and – now that Sherridan had been splashing the cash – to give him the means to do so. Which, as soon as he’d gotten used to the bike and done the whole *driving aimlessly just for the hell of it* thing to absolute death, meant only one thing; finding a new joint.

Nancy’s fitted the bill far better than the fake-olde-world-charm places he’d found himself limited to (the sort of places you picked up jerks like Lance, he noted). His sort of joints had, of course, been off limits, crawling with cops who, understandably, would be more than a little pissed off that the urban legend they'd claimed to have caught and cured had come out of retirement, proved to be little more than a mere boy, and blown the lies quite literally sky-high. It was the sort of return he'd have killed to make... once. Now it was just inconvenient, especially since, as he saw it, it wasn't really his choice. He'd have to remember to thank Magneto for that one, if they ever got round to actually talking.

By now, though, interest in the case seemed to have died down, and the kid in the dark glasses and darker denims didn’t merit a second glance in the seedy, smoky melting pot which was Nancy’s. This was the sort of place where – he noted with no small approval – you didn’t get asked for ID, or (which was even better, given how he hated small talk) asked anything much at all, the silence which settled once the Barman set down the glass (in his case JD’s, of course) and passed between strangers sat next to each other but not together (and hell, how much of difference did that make? Thank God for places like this which still understood the distinction) comfortable rather than awkward.

[siryn]

As the whiskey ran down her throat, Terry could already feel the alcohol kicking in - it wasn't long before Siryn felt the effects, and that's what she liked about it, it just lifted the pain and anguish so quickly and easily - at least for a short period of time, before you wake up in the morning with a fucking migraine. Oh well, everything comes with a price.

Her blue eyes shifted slightly to her side, without catching anything interesting to gawk at - and then they tripped over a lad, perhaps a bit older than Terry, sitting there with a pair of dark glasses covering his eyes. Siryn couldn't helpt but snigger at the sight - why the hell do you need glasses at night? Then again, this was New York - she kind of considered American't to be off the top, every single one of those bastards.

"Where's yer cane lad, forgot it at home?" Terry addressed John with a mocking tone, swinging down on the whiskey until the glass was empty. She motioned for the bar tender to fill it up, returning her attention to Pyro, a mischievous grin playing on her lips. Normally she wasn't so bitchy, but the blessed alcohol always brought up the less favourable aspects of her personality, to put it nicely.

[Pyro]

Fuck. Why the hell couldn’t people just leave the hell alone, scowl? Always had to go making stupid fucking nonsense words, spoiling his comfortable delusion that the *don’t mess with me air* he so badly wanted (not that he’d admit it, of course) had finally developed despite all the little >_< things frustrating that ambition. And always drunk, which meant you couldn’t really get properly pissed off with them because *it was just the alcohol talking*. Stupid people. Sigh.

Things had been looking good and all... until she opened her mouth she might well have been tolerable, a weclome distraction. Now she was just annoying.

”They’re supposed to protect me from your dazzling wit, Irish” he half-grinned, slipping the offending eyewear off with a newfound realisation as to exactly how stupid having them on indoors looked ”but it doesn’t look like I’ll be needing them” John motioned for another drink, the first shot barely touching the sides, knocked back as if it were water.

[siryn]

Terry frowned slightly at Pyro's response, swinging the liquid in the glass to and fro. Irish? So she's reffered to as Irish now? It kind of sounded like being categorized into a bread instead of a nationality. Damn Americans - think they're on the top o' the bloody world. Still, at least he didn't call me Scottish - lucky lad.

"Me name's Theresa, not 'Irish', ya fecking skypilot." she said with a somewhat irritated tone, yet with a hint of a cynycal note that was indicated by the glass of whiskey in her hand. "Bloody Americans can't wait t' put one o' yer labels on us, can't ya?"

Terry's blue eyes shifted to meet John's, and for a swift second she was completely astonished - his eyes, a pair of dark gaping orbs so reminded her of Black Tom's tenebrous whirls, so piercing and grim, able to penetrate through all the barricades one builds up. Siryn quickly directed her glance back at the glass - Tom always gave her that certain *look* that made Terry feel guilty, for no apparent reason. Oh, how she hated that, old memories coming ashore.

[Pyro]

”I’m not ‘fecking’ American, Theresa. And I’m not fecking psychic, so how the fecking hell am I meant to know what your fecking name is?”

Ouch… not merely the painful mangling of what could only be assumed to be an attempt at an Irish accent. Though to be fair it wasn’t anything like the explosion, literal or metaphorical, which it could have been… more cold, deadpan, delivered with a slight smirk in that strange moment where their eyes met.

Her down-glance he could only interpret as something of a victory, settling back in his seat (as much as one could on a bar stool…). Damn straight. Take that

[siryn]

"Ya know," Terry raised her eyes upwards at John's, determined to hold up the glance no matter what 'nostalgic' (better yet, mind-numbing) memories they brought up. She wasn't about to let some wanker win her over with a simple glance. "If you'd be half-deaf and then cover one o' yer ears, that accent of yers would almost sound genuine."

Smirking, Siryn ran the tips of her fingers across the top edges of the glass. When was the first time she tried alcohol? 13? 14? Maybe she was even younger than that. From young of age, Terry felt a hollow feeling of loneliness creep inside, and desperately she tried to find methods to cure herself - alcohol, apparently, was the most effective one. Happiness in a bottle...Terry seemed to find answers in all the wrong places.

"So who the hell are ya, then? Withdrew the right o'me t'call ya American." Theresa said without even bothering to look at Pyro, lifting the glass to take another go at it. Oh, sweet intoxication - how was it that drowning your sorrows only made you hit the bottom yourself?

[Pyro]

”Yah know,” he looked at her sidelong, his glance withering as if granting her even that was more than she merited (which it was... why couldn’t she shut up and let him drink?), the slight smirk returning. ”I want to say the same about yours, but that’s too much of a complement. It’s like a comedy leprechaun without even the lame humor”

Why is it than when you’re pissed off you get drunk so much quicker? And why is it always mean-drunk? If he’d been able to manage amiable-drunk then she might have left him alone (or, more likely, he might have kidded himself that he could tolerate her). As it was, this was becoming something of an undignified and alcohol-drenched cat fight. Fantastic.

There was something like fun there, underneath it all, the weird spark that comes from sparring with someone who’s not holding back. There’d been altogether too much control at the Brotherhood recently, everyone afraid of pushing arguments to anything like breaking point incase the one they were pushing turned out to be an uber-powerful mutant terrorist and not just one of Magneto’s strays. Pyro’s reputation proceeded him, of course, and so he’d been given a wide berth by pretty much everyone. Which was sort of good, meaning they saw him as something other than pathetic, but also really, really boring.

Still, all the fun in the world didn’t quite drown out the irritating side.

”I’m just someone trying to enjoy a drink without it being wrecked by some kid from the emerald isle who’s obviously breaking curfew.”

[siryn]

"A leipreachán, ya say? How very sarcastic when comin' from a midget like yerself." Terry shot back, followed by a laugh of a mocking nature. Jaysus, he should really pick his comparisions. Eh, brought tears to me eyes. Sure, she notted the fact that Pyro wasn't a giant in height, especially since her legs were cat-walk material.

This was rolling out to be quite an amusing argument - not what Siryn came for, but entertaining nonetheless. It was fun messing with a person and knowing that they can't actually do anything to you, 'cause if they make a wrong move, they'll wind up with a ringing in their ears that lasts a lifetime.

Kid? Emerald island? This guy here obviously didn't know with whom he was dealing with. Though it was a good thing, in a way - it ment that he didn't see the newspapers or government posters with Terry's proud picture on it. Of course, they were removed as soon as she wounded up with the X-men, but at times people still gave the redhead odd looks.

"How about you stop gettin' yer arse in a knot? Yer barely past my age. Oh, and if I were from paradise island, I woudn't be her now, wouldn't I?" Who the hell was he trying to pass as, Marlon Brando from "The Wild One"? And why are people so damn blind to just waltz around and make stupid judgements that didn't fit Terry at the least?

[Pyro]

"Yeah, well..."

He thought for a minute, trying to find some way of coming back to that one... but whether it was the alcohol, or burning the candle at both ends, or whatever, the right words - or any words at all, for that matter - were not forthcoming. Which was annoying. He used to be so damn good at this verbal sparring thing... maybe he was getting old, or something, or maybe Bobby had been right and the guy who had been good at that hadn't ever existed. Sigh. Things were bloody confusing, and he'd been stupid enough to forget that alcohol didn't exactly make things less hazy.

He retrieved his lighter as the third drink came, went, and was replaced, resuming the habitual dull click which was so more eloquent than the words he eventually settled on."Whatever. Fuck you."

[siryn]

Well, the glass of Jack Daniels in Terry's hand certainly didn't seem to douse her sarcasm - in fact, it morphed from teasing to nasty with every following round. It seemed as if the alcohol would take down all the barricades she built to hide the darker side of her personality - it was as if an alter ego of some sorts, a demon that was passed to the next generation from the angsty terrorist that was Black Tom.

"Right back at ya, love" Terry said with a somewhat miechievous grin and raised her glass mockingly at Pyro, only for it to be emptied seconds later. Wow, she was devouring those drinks as if they were bird seeds. Her organism was so used to it, it immediatelly succumbed to the toxic liquid.

[Pyro]

"No way" - he returned the toast, and her dark grin - "I may be a disgraceful fucked up barfly, but even I have standards"

Oh lord... if that was starting to sound like a worthy comeback rather than utter shit he should probably have been cutting back on the drink by now... but doing what he should do was never top of the agenda, really, so down the fire went... what was this, the fourth shot? Fifth?

Fuck it. She showed no signs of letting up, and besides, he'd never been one to do things by half measures... why drink, if not for that wierd oblivion?

[siryn]

"Oh really?" Terry placed the now empty glass upon the bar and stood up - yes, she could still stand, even after drinking half of the bar's whiskey supplies - and slipped off the leather jacket, uncovering but a simple dark tank top underneath, which revealed most of her torso. "An' what are yer standards at dancin'?"

Moving towards the dancefloor, her gestures were rather uncoordinated, but they matched the song so perfectly that it almost covered her drunken manners all in all. Swaying to the beat of the music, Terry motioned John to approach with her finger, a slight smirk lining across her light facial features. Funny how a few drinks could erase an argument - or spark it up, for that matter.

[Pyro]

”Uh-uh” – and what was that going down there? Five shots, maybe six. Brilliant. Might as well just leave the bottle this time… – ”John Allerdyce does not dance. Nowhere near drunk enough for that, thanks. Feel free to knock yourself out though, Irish. Preferably literally”

… ach, he was becoming such a fucking cliché lately, this whole ‘embittered drunk’ thing just the latest in the relentless cycle of stock types he’d been careering through. But whatever. They were easy enough to maintain, that was the thing – no need to think too deeply, just to slip behind the mask . Here’s to clichés… Down with the sixth, and to hell with counting. From here on in it wouldn’t matter anyway.

[siryn]

”John Allerdyce does not dance. Nowhere near drunk enough for that, thanks. Feel free to knock yourself out though, Irish. Preferably literally”

Oooh, ego-much, the bar-tender thought. He had to be drunk not to dance with this girl. It was all perfect - Siryn was attractive, drippin' drunk, an easy catch for a one night stand. Yet, little did he know, this was not your ordinary under-age jaffa (meaning red-head with an attitude).

Terry giggled at Pyro. Not quite drunk. Way to ruin the mood. Then again, she was buckled to the point where she just couldn't care less. It was all about the joyful, dizzy feeling that you get when that liquid gold runs down your throat. No time to think about John here or the agonizing head-ache that will torture her in the morning.

"Suit yerself, Aller--DYCE!" Terry shot back, unintentionally letting out a sonic vibration with the last syllable. It carried down itself to the bottles lined up upon the top shelf, and with a banging sound, four of them, one after another, shattered into tiny pieces of glass.

Siryn let out a laugh as the bar-tender stood there in disbelief, accompanied with the other club-scavangers. What the hell did just happen? The grimace on his face clearly stated that he took back everything he thought about Terry - all of their eyes were fixed upon the red-haired lass while she danced as if nothing here had happened.