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Post by Pyro on May 14, 2007 20:24:38 GMT
OOC The evening after John&Bobby in the DR, on the roof outside John's new room. Tagging Rogue.
Rain sizzles off the improvised roof (so that flame-ceiling thing had come in useful after all… though he’s not thinking about that, because learning that, along with working up the control to maintain it (though said control’s probably intended to be in the face of threats somewhat different from spontaneous liver combustion…), is one of the things he’s not allowed to remember right now) hovering above the real one and the figure crouched on it. Fitting refuge, really, given the last time he’d been up here, and fuck, who could resist this sort of delicious pathetic fallacy (except that it’s clearly nothing of the sort because he’s fine)?
Downing another mouthful, John grimaces at the stale, watery-acid taste – cheap, warm beer… uch.
Fuck, beer is bad enough, warm or otherwise, but the Jacks had run out rather quicker than he’d liked, and acquiring more would have meant raiding ‘that room’ and… no. Not right now. Not that he’s *too emotional* or *messed up* or any of that shit. Just… not now. He’s almost wishing that Logan would come back from finding himself in Canada (fuck’s sake, how hard can it be? ‘Have you seen a great big hairy Canuck with a fuck off attitude and, oh yeah, claws?’ ‘Sure, he’s down the back of the sofa’), if only to replenish his stash before buggering off again, because the good stuff is pretty much gone by now. But alcohol’s still alcohol, beggars can’t be choosers, and he’s pretty much run out of people he’s willing to beg-borrow-or-steal from given that he’s hard pressed to think of anyone who wouldn’t be well within their rights to poison it or something.
He’s going to regret this tomorrow, he knows… but it’ll be kind of liberating to have one regret he can admit to without resorting to ritual suicide immediately afterwards, won’t it?
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Post by Rogue on May 14, 2007 20:44:57 GMT
It’s been a bit of an emotional day. Not the bad sort, no, because she’s really, really glad Bobby’s okay, but the scare earlier, and the general stress and even the happy-crying left her sort of drained and debating putting off her search for John until she’d had a proper nap…
But Rogue had settled for a quick shower, changed out of the uniform and into normal clothes, and gone looking. After a little while of not finding anything, she’d prodded gently at his psyke to tell her where she’s likely to find him – and been a little startled by the moodiness of the fragment, a little hesitant to find the real-John if his psyke is that upset – and gotten no real help from him.
So she’s on her own. It’s raining, now, and she’s sort of wondering if maybe she should have waited to change into normal clothes until after she checked outside – or if checking out here is even logical, ‘cause John doesn’t seem the sort to be outside in the rain…
But she flies up to get a better view anyway, because since when does John do what she expects him to anymore? And, there, on the roof – the flame catches her attention, and draws a small smile as she heads in that direction.
Once on the roof, she sort of hesitates – what, exactly, is she going to say to him? She can’t chew him out for acting like an ass back there because she sort-of understands that he’s upset, and a smaller part understands why, even though at the same time she really-really doesn’t understand, because Bobby’s alive, and he should be happy, and it just doesn’t make sense…
All in all, it’s just confusing. But she has to at least try to be there for him, even if she’s not sure what good it’ll do. So she crosses the roof and leans down, peering under the roof of flame to flash a small almost-tentative smile.
”Hey Sugah.” She doesn’t exactly wait for him to invite her under, takes a seat beside him. ”Thought y’didn’ like beer..?” Dumb conversation starter, really, but she doesn’t know if she should just start on the big-obvious topic or wait a little, so it’ll do for now.
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Post by Pyro on May 14, 2007 21:22:13 GMT
He’s surprised – startled even, though it’s in a sluggish and mostly disinterested sort of way rather than a true jump – to see Rogue (the absurdity of seeing her prompting a second wave of okay, what the fuck? at why he’s outside in the rain on the fucking roof himself, given his hatred of cold and damp and, okay, heights… but again, it’s noted mostly with a disinterested-come-amused heh rather than anything else)… though he immediately kicks himself with slightly more passion because, well, why is it so hard to believe? She’s his fucking girlfriend after all, and so it’s not like it’s especially revolutionary for her to seek him out when he’s clearly feeling like absolute shit. If anything it’s probably the only normal part of this whole affair, isn’t it?
(And he’s ignoring how good it feels that she would seek him out, because… no, more than enough fucked up and twisted kicks today, and he’s too deep into this sulk to let himself feel that anyway).
< Hey sugah
She peers under the edge of his hideout, and he glares back, somewhere between a small child scowling out at being discovered in their secret den and a wearily petulant okay, what the fuck do you want now? teenager resigned to, but still hating, how people won’t leave them the fuck alone, swinging further into the second as, with a weary sigh, he prepares to shift over and make enough room for her before replying to the no doubt imminent nervous request with a sure, come in wave…
… except the request never comes. Which is odd. Though he still shifts in a mildly aggrieved manner, hugging his knees up to his chest and looking anywhere other than at her. It’s not that she’s done anything to piss him off, per se, not really, just that… this is another of those things best not done now. Because he’d fucked up on that one rather spectacularly, and because on some level he knows that this is a conversation best left for another time… and on another, more selfish one, doesn’t want to have it at any time in the foreseeable future.
< Thought y’didn’t like beer…?
Again, he’s pointedly not being touched by her knowing that. No. Because it’s a stupid random little detail which means nothing (and no, that’s not why it’s important, fuck off). So he settles for a surly ”Don’t. Tastes like shite…” followed by a more tentative ”How’s Lazarus the Incredible Undead Popsicle doing?” The nickname sits none-too-comfortably in a tone which could otherwise have passed for somewhere nearer concerned than aggravated, though that in turn doesn’t fit with the whole fuck off demeanour… and it’s all a fucking great tangle, really. Which, if nothing else, is probably the truest thing about all of this.
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Post by Rogue on May 18, 2007 0:40:59 GMT
He almost doesn’t seem to want her there, except that he’s not telling her to leave so he must not really mind (because if he really didn’t, he’d say so, right?)… And even so, she’s not sure she’d go anywhere, because whether he likes it or not they do have to talk about this, and the sooner the better. She shifts a little, turning so she can see him better but without moving too much in an away-sort of direction.
”Don’t. Tastes like shite…”[/color]
“Why y’drinkin’ it, then?” she questions, almost forced-playful tone. It’s probably a pointless question – more than likely he’s just run out of everything else (which is worrying, really – just how much has he had?), or just doesn’t really care what form the alcohol takes (also worrying…). But still, it’s something.
“How’s Lazarus the Incredible Undead Popsicle doing?”[/color]
Rogue’s not entirely sure what, exactly, to make of the way he says that, what exactly his tone is or should be… and decides not to bother trying, because this is John and making sense of him is nearly impossible on a good day (except that it’s not, not for her - not always at least…).
”He’s good. Back t’normal, back t’how he always is…” She can’t help the smile that follows that, because it’s a good thing, even if he doesn’t see that, it is, and she can’t not be glad for it.
The smile downshifts after a second, and she studies him almost-worriedly a moment. ”How’re y’, though, Sugah?”
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Post by Pyro on May 18, 2007 1:11:00 GMT
< Why y’drinkin’ it, then?
He shrugs, avoiding her gaze, directing his instead to where his thumb runs thoughtfully across the edge of the bottle neck, hesitant to give an answer because what he has to say sounds bad and she won’t like it one b… fuck it. ”It n’ my liver are still here” – he shrugs again, downs a mouthful to make the point (whatever the point is, if there even is one… not like he cares much either way) and almost manages not to show how foul the stuff is, his response coming in a measured deadpan, somewhere between thoughtful and passively irked by her apparent stupidity in missing something that obvious – ”Jack and my so-called girlfriend-or-whatever aren’t… weren’t… something. Whatever” Another draught, another almost concealed grimace, and a half-grin as he offers her the bottle.
< He’s good. Back t’normal, back t’how he always is
John snorts – ”How’s that again?” – somewhere at the wounded end of disparaging. Is there such a thing as a *normal* Bobby any more, what with all the changes he’s been careering between? If there is, his version and hers have to be totally different, more than likely incompatible, and maybe that’s why what she says rings so fucking hollow… that, and the fact she’s more than likely trying to convince herself as much as him.
< How’re y’ though, Sugah?
”Ah…” – that’s the million dollar question, isn’t it? He grins, though it’s more of a nervy what the fuck do I say? grimace, gaze back down on the tiles, rubbing the back of his neck and drawing a hissing breath through gritted teeth. Shit.
Only one answer he can give, right? Even if she’ll see right through it – though there’s nothing to see through because it’s clearly the way things really are; she’s just deluded and seeing things that aren’t there – except that they are, and he’s just putting his hands over his eyes and pretending that means they don’t exist. ”I’m great. Pea-chy.” John looks back up to her, all forced brightness and unavoidable sarcastic edge. ”Fan-fucking-tastic.”
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Post by Rogue on May 18, 2007 2:10:21 GMT
”It n’ my liver are still here… Jack and my so-called girlfriend-or-whatever aren’t… weren’t… something. Whatever”
…And cue the guilt, right on schedule. Because, yeah, she wasn’t here, and she probably should have been. But surely the situation was understandable..? Bobby’s recovery, after thinking he was doomed for that long – he can’t have expected her to just chase after him right away, and not spend a little time with her friend, after something like that, especally?
Still, though, she does feel bad that she wasn’t there for him (even though at the same time she doesn’t because she needed to be with Bobby, to reassure herself it was real and he was okay, and she doesn't regret that part, not exactly; it’s a weird mix that’s frustrating and confusing).”’M sorry…”
She accepts the bottle with a small smile, takes a drink… yeah, nasty. She doesn’t bother trying not to make a face (because no matter what the drink, it seems, she’ll never really like the taste…), and passes it back to him.
”How’s that again?”[/color]
She shoots him a questioning glance – silently asking if he’s seriously asking, expecting an answer. What sort of question is that, really? Bobby’s …Bobby. Not ‘Robert’ anymore, back how he should be, and that’s obvious… And he should be glad. He should be, and he doesn’t seem like he is, and… and she doesn’t understand why – even John should realize when things are looking up, shouldn’t he?
”Ah… […] I’m great. Pea-chy. Fan-fucking-tastic.”
“I c’n tell. Lurkin’ on th’roof in th’rain, drinkin’ beer…” She glances down a second, almost-smile there for a second before it turns back to serious as she looks back to him, “C’n talk t’me, hon. Why’s this ….a bad thing? Shouldn’ ya be glad he’s okay?”
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Post by Pyro on May 18, 2007 3:16:40 GMT
Should he be feeling guilty that she’s apologising for paying attention to Bobby, or that the fact she feels the need to is again weirdly uplifting? Either way, his ”Pfft, don’t be” is markedly less sincere than her apology.
He snickers at her icked-out expression – ”Yep, foul… why the fuck am I drinking this?” – before his brow creases as if in actual confusion in response to the almost-jokey question and, suddenly disgusted by the beer (or, well, still disgusted but suddenly motivated to do something other than keep drinking), reaches out and drops the bottle over the edge, peering down with an almost childlike interest in catching, and flicker of a grin on noticing, the satisfying shatter far below before shrugging - oh well, whatever – and sitting back… only now there’s nothing to occupy him, so he goes for… well, it’s obvious what, and the regular click punctuates proceedings from here on in.
An almost wounded What? counters her unspoken question, followed by an overly melodramatic eye-roll and huffed sigh – for fuck’s sake, come on. Like either of them know who Bobby is now. He might as well be a fucking stranger, except a really creepy stalker-like one who somehow knows all the details of your life as if he was actually there. So he’s not Robert anymore, but honestly, to say things are now back like they were is fucking insane. Nothing ever stays the same, and even if he is a carbon copy of Bobby before Baxter the rest of the world has moved on and it’s like jamming the wrong pieces of the jigsaw together – maybe you can still tell what the picture is, but it’s always and undeniably fucked.
< I c’n tell. Lurkin’ on th’ roof in th’ rain, drinkin’ beer
”Exactly. Logan’d be so fucking proud.” he half-grins, though the prospect of turning into Logan…? *shudder* The amnesia he’d gladly take to erase the last few months – fuck, all the way back to Boston’d be aces – and Rogue’s fangirlish admiration and undying gratitude’d be… well, pretty much what he gets now, only in a less fucked up form… but no.
< C’n talk t’me hun
It’s his turn again with the parade of … oh sure, you really think so? glances, sidelong and withering. Sure, maybe he’s been more open and candid than usual of late, but… no, it’s still not something that comes easily, pouring out shit like that, especially not to her. Because… what the fuck is he meant to say? The reason I’m pissed off that Bobby won’t fucking stay dead is that it makes *us* some sick and twisted joke because if he was still around I’d never…? Oh sure, that’ll work a treat. As would any of the other more accurate, but currently less pressing, explanations for why he isn’t exactly doing joyful back-flips at the news.
< Shouldn’ ya be glad he’s okay?
”Shouldn’ ya stop fucking telling me what I *should* be doing?” he snaps, bouncing back fragments of her words and spatters of his in a biting, stinging mix. ”In fact, screw that, shouldn’ everyone just fuck the hell off and stop trying to make sense? I’m fucking crazy, and this whole thing’s totally fucking insane, okay?”
He sighs, pauses, bites his lip as if in thought, double checking how he’ll continue… sighs again, shakes his head. His tone, when he restarts, is quieter, edged with something that should, if the listener can get past their own disbelief, be apologetic in what for John passes as the extreme, and dominated by weariness and an equally alien pleading, wheedling almost-whine. ”Don’t want to talk right now, ‘kay?”
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Post by Rogue on May 18, 2007 7:09:53 GMT
”Pfft, don’t be”
She’s not really sure if she’s supposed to say something in reply – or what, if so. He doesn’t exactly sound… quite like he’s serious, like he really doesn’t think she should be sorry, but he doesn’t sound sarcastic either, so … she just doesn’t respond.
”Yep, foul… why the fuck am I drinking this?”[/color]
He looks genuinely confused after a second, and she watches, surprised and amused, as he drops the bottle over the edge of the roof, leaning down to watch it’s decent and resulting destruction, and she laughs slightly. The appearance of the lighter draws another smile – and her eyes are on the motion of the Zippo, almost distractedly watching, the glint of light from the flames above reflecting off the metal holding her attention for a few moments.
”Exactly. Logan’d be so fucking proud.” [/color]
”Maybe…” She flashes a surprisingly-genuine playful grin his way, looking up from where her attention had been diverted, ”O’he’d b’mad y’were drinkin’ his beer, an’ threaten’a chuck y’off th’roof…”
”Shouldn’ ya stop fucking telling me what I *should* be doing? In fact, screw that, shouldn’ everyone just fuck the hell off and stop trying to make sense? I’m fucking crazy, and this whole thing’s totally fucking insane, okay?”[/color]
Initially there’s a flash of anger, a reflexive impulse to snap back at him in frustration - she’s only trying to help him, and if he’d stop not making sense she wouldn’t have to try to make it all make sense all the time and…
But then that fades out, and she drops her eyes to the roof beneath her, realizing he’s just obviously upset and snapping wouldn’t help, already feeling bad for even wanting to snap back in the first place when he doesn’t deserve that, and especially not right now while he’s obviously not okay...
”Don’t want to talk right now, ‘kay?” Rogue glances back over, a little surprised by the tone – it …doesn’t seem exactly right; it’s genuine-sounding enough, but …just isn’t what she’s come to expect… Which isn’t altogether a bad thing, just a sign that things aren’t quite as normal, which she shouldn’t be surprised by anymore, but still is somehow.
She nods slightly and offers a smile, “’Kay.” She hesitates a second, then shifts and hugs him briefly, careful not to hurt him (either by touching or crushing him). She hates that she doesn’t know how to help, to make things all okay again. And, sure, maybe it’s not for her to do on her own, because thinking she’s the only one who could make it better is ridiculous, but she can’t sit by and do nothing, either...
...And she refuses to think that it can’t possibly be fixed, because… no. It can. It has to be possible. She draws back and flashes another small smile. ”Y’wan’ me t’let ya alone, hon?”
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Post by Pyro on May 19, 2007 19:25:41 GMT
He’s almost surprised she doesn’t snap back – she’s fierier than that, isn’t she? Not quite as meek and… Oh, right. That’d be him. And maybe falling for the version of themselves someone is around you, and not who they are around everyone else, doesn’t sound that fucked up, but that’s… sort of missing the point with them, trying to force normal relationship dynamics onto whatever the hell it is they have… and either way thinking about that is making his head spin and… nope. Not thinking. Because it doesn’t matter how fucked it is, it’s something real, else she wouldn’t have sought him out, and that hug wouldn’t be making any difference.
(It’s just Bobby making him doubt things, just so fucking like him… same way that seeing what’s good doesn’t actually *throw everything that’s wrong into sharper relief*, he’s just adding in the sorts of crap Bobby would come out with… Fuck him).
John turns as she pulls away, somewhere between confused and disappointed, but doesn’t move to pull her back, just pauses for a moment before dropping his gaze from her for another couple and then turning it back to the darkness of the Institute grounds. It snaps back to her, laced with a spark of concern which he quickly smothers (though not quickly enough to stop the instinctive protesting ”No” which escapes), as she speaks again.
Shit. The ‘No’ is out there, and can’t really be easily retracted… not that he necessarily wants to… except that he does… and… fuck, why does this all have to be so fucking complicated?
”I mean” John sighs, back to something near confused ”Maybe. I don’t know. What I want is for us to go more than a few minutes without things snapping back to you-know-what. Fuck, maybe do something really radical like have an actual conversation that isn’t not-talking about h… that. Or something.” His gaze snaps back away from her, his tone sharpening. "If that's a problem than yeah, you should go."
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Post by Rogue on May 19, 2007 20:55:48 GMT
”No”[/color]
She half-smiles, though she’s a little surprised by the quick response (it’s not like him to be that sort of agreeing, so it’s unsettling and pushes the he’s not really okay at all level up another notch), and shifts, settling to stay…
”I mean […] Maybe. I don’t know. What I want is for us to go more than a few minutes without things snapping back to you-know-what. Fuck, maybe do something really radical like have an actual conversation that isn’t not-talking about h… that. Or something.”[/color]
…He has a point – everything, lately, has been either about or pointedly-not-about Bobby and this whole complicated …thing… Which is understandable, right? Given how huge everything is, how important it is? But it probably doesn’t help things, really, just bringing them back out and keeping them all in mind for him, and she doesn’t want to make things worse, harder on him
But wouldn’t starting any conversation right now be the same thing as the pointedly-not-taking-about? Just a way to talk about something else instead?
"If that's a problem than yeah, you should go."
”I’ll try..?” She can’t promise she won’t, but trying she can handle, as long as that’s good enough. She leans back on her hands, looking over at him with a slighly apologetic smile. ”Sorry. I jus’ wanna b’able t’help... Don’ know how, though.” And, yeah, she's fully aware that's not exactly a subject change, but she doesn't really know where to turn the topic to instead, or how to do so without seeming so completely like she's pointedly doing so.
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Post by Pyro on May 20, 2007 1:41:09 GMT
< I’ll try..?
John shakes his head, a frustrated snarl of a half-sigh rolling low in his throat because she just doesn’t get it; ”Trying’s not fucking good enough, sheila.” – Sheila? Where the fuck did that come from? Same place, more than likely, that turns like into loik whenever he gets properly plastered, which is thankfully about as rare as finding hen’s teeth – ”Either you can or you can’t” Because that’s how it works; one or the other, black or white, nice neat little boxes independent of each other… And maybe he should have reconciled himself to the grey areas by now, but there’s only one person he ever trusted to blur things that much and as far as he’s concerned that only ended in his getting fucked over by said individual (couldn’t even respect the line between dead and alive, could he? Stupid fucker.) so… not this time. His rules. Not that they make the game any less dangerous, but it’s infinitely better if he’s the one doing the hurting when the time comes, selfish and fucked up as that makes him.
< Sorry. I jus’ wanna b’able t’help... Don’ know how, though
”Stop trying” he says, with a shrug, as if it really is that simple and as if that much should be blatantly obvious… which it sort of is and should be, really. S’funny that it took him this long to see that, but there it is. ”Because it’s best when you don’t… try. Don’t make the same fucking mistakes as…” – and there he cuts himself short, because they’re not meant to be talking about him, isn’t that the whole fucking point?
… and not talking about him shouldn’t leave this big, or awkward, a silence… though they can n0t-talk about him and still be profound and deep and shit, right? Just as his next question goes to prove, though it comes as more of a throwaway, a random thought articulated before he’s really processed it. ”In all the many, many years of our acquaintance, Leechette, have we ever had a proper conversation?”
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Post by Rogue on May 20, 2007 18:04:30 GMT
”Trying’s not fucking good enough, sheila.”
…Sheila? She’s somewhere between confusion and amusement, and debates cutting in to ask since when he calls her – or anyone, for that matter – that. His psyke’s thoughts on the matter, though, discourage that, so it’s left at just a curious side-glance his way….
”Either you can or you can’t”
She doesn’t understand why he seems to think everything is so obvious and simple when it so obviously isn’t at all. It’s complicated and everything else is by association too, and … and it’s just too insane.
And, yeah, she still can’t promise that she can do that, but she just sort of shrugs, brushing the almost-implied question away. She’ll try her best, but promising something like that isn’t going to happen, and until she’s sure she can’t, she’ll stay.
”Stop trying. Because it’s best when you don’t… try. Don’t make the same fucking mistakes as…”
She doesn’t exactly notice that he’s cut off, though she is aware of what he’s said. Her mind’s a little busy running circles, trying to figure out what she’s supposed to say. How can she not try to help him with this? It’s completely absurd to think she’d even be capable of stopping, really, because if she does … that’s like abandoning him, isn’t it? And she can’t do that.
”Not tha’ simple…” she murmurs, almost as if speaking to herself, but doesn’t offer anything more than that, letting the silence lapse until he speaks again.
”In all the many, many years of our acquaintance, Leechette, have we ever had a proper conversation?”
”’Course we have…” Though… really, even what passed for ‘proper conversations’ between the two of them was usually bickering, playing around, and angst, all pushed together and always more dysfunctional than everyone else’s ‘proper conversations’… She laughs slightly (even though it’s not that funny, really), and half-shrugs. ”…I think?”
[Sorry if this isn't great, hon, can't thiiink...]
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