A very merry unbirthday.

[Manslaughter]

The kitchen has exploded.

Or for sake of logical explanation, something within the kitchen seems to have imploded resulting in wayward streaks of flower that dot almost every handle in suspicious shapes that appear to resemble finger prints. Pieces of eggshell lay crumbled upon the center counter, crunched either out of heavy exertion, or the rolling pin messy with egg whites. As for the only nice silver bowl, it seems beyond all help, crusted with a chunky brown substance and frosted with a crystallization of sugar. Whatever concotion that had previously taken toxic residence there had been transferred to a frying pan, which likewise seems past the point of a team of culinary medics coming to its rescue.

The.. unidentifiable glop is burnt and almost charred, which perhaps might explain the lingering cloud of pale smoke from lingering heat even after the stove had been turned off. This can only prove that whatever streneous efforts had been exerted in hopes of a breakfast of sorts had been a complete and utter failure.

With his back to this wreckage, Roger is sitting in the middle of the kitchen, rocking back and forth and clutching the ends of his feet. His condition mirrors the kitchen, messy and charred, a few of his fingers singed where he'd attempted to save his pancake. His eyes are half-lidded, a suggestion that he is in his own little world, an alternate dimension where none of this is occurring.

"..Ha..ppy Birthday..," he murmurs, smiling dreamily to himself, nodding to imaginary people seated around him. In his birthday celebration, there is a cake, and the Brotherhood is there--including Magneto, newly undead. "..to me.. birthday.."

His birthday pancake still simmers in smoke.

[Sherridan Kaine]

Ever since Roger came into the Brotherhood, and ever since there was quite a number of attacks on it, including the newly concluded Magneto thing, one can not possibly tell whether the place is under attack, or if Roger has been cooking again.

Cooking. Roger and cooking were two words that were not supposed to come together in a sentence, without a not in between. But then again, cooking has been used extremely liberally for almost all the brotherhood members. What is it that makes super-powered , evil, single men absolutely incapable of preparing a meal that actually includes something more complex than putting a slab of bacon, cheese, or whatever other food or the substitute for the same, in between two chunks of bread that were previously "cut" by ripping the perfectly innocent loaf apart? Sadly, this is the case with most normal, good, single men as well.

Well, Sherridan has always been proud of not being able to say that he belongs to this group, no matter how exclusive or inclusive it may become. Among other things, he was taught cooking by some of the finest chefs, naturally of all sorts of nationalities. Somehow, in her infinite wisdom, his mother had predicted that he would be the one taking care of Roger and cooking him only the most sumptuous of meals. Alright, she predicted he would be single and grown up.

So he walks down to the kitchen very calmly, because he has by now learned to distinguish between hostile and Roger explosions (although there was not really that much difference). As he enters the kitchen, he recognizes Roger making an attempt at self-celebration. Oh yes, Sherridan knows. He always knows when it comes to Roger. He is, after all, something like his charge, his younger brother. And he has everything planned out. First, he is going to take the mop, of course, and clean everything up. And then he is going to open the fridge, move the milk cartons, and then the beers, and then reach out to the left and behind the large amounts of green generic vegetable stuff that no one really eats, or buys, but somehow just tends to pop out in every single fridge in the entire world, and then produce a huge, juicy, whipped cream-covered chocolate/chocolate chip/chocolate shavings/"Happy Birthday, Roger!" cake with an exact amount of eighteen candles on it. And he does so right now.

And after the first few slices of cake are eaten, the two are going to go to a special little restaurant that serves ice cream that is to kill for (and because of which, Sherridan has killed before), but the price of which is to die of (which is in some manner true, since the owner of the place is a local mob boss, and most people who eat once there probably do not eat again until their death by starvation due to bankruptcy), and buy Roger as much ice cream as he wants. After all, Sherridan does have the financial stability of an ice berg, measured by Ice Age conditions.

"Hey, there buddy! Look what I made you. I hope you like it!" he says in the same friendly way he has grown to like addressing Roger with, quickly changing his fur color back to the black-with-white-spots which the boy seems to like so much. True, most people got cars for their eighteenth birthday if they didn't already have one, but the thought of Roger behind the wheel and on a highway, in the middle of a workday with a bad case of road rage is the kind of publicity the Brotherhood would actually want to avoid, and, frankly, it scares the living daylights out of Sherridan himself. Which is why, when he did the whole "B-Hood Team Spirit" action of buying everyone bikes, Roger actually got just another ton of ice cream and candy, which seemed to please the boy more, thank whomever is up there but is definitely not God.

[Manslaughter]

"Birthday..," he repeats to himself in a sigh, nodding his head slightly and letting his chin fall forward to his chest, twisting his head side to side, rubbing his hands repeatedly across his knees. To Sherridan's entrance, he gives no response. Evidently, in an act of self-preservation, Roger has put up a mental wall, unconciously protecting himself after drifting off into something similiar to a drug-induced haze.

Happy Birthday, sweetheart. Do you want a birthday pancake? I know you like pancakes. She smiles unfalteringly, crooning sweetly and brushing his bangs back from his forehead, pretending that he is not partially absent upstairs. His medication is strong and resilient, and he scarcely bats an eyelash when she presses a fork to his hand and encouraging him to eat the neatly cut pieces of pancake glittering in drizzles of syrup. Light and fluffy--he eats them, tasting only a texture of shredded cotton on his tongue.

Noise as Sherriden cleans does not stir him. After his incessant rocking, though, Roger suddenly ceases all movement, weight poised in a careful balance, neither a twitch or shudder gripping him to keep still. He remains in this state for some time as the normal grimy surfaces of the floor and table make themselves known.

To his left, the refridgerator opens and closes, resuming its normal hum. Hey, there buddy! Look what I made you. I hope you like it! A friendly purr, it tantilizes his ear, making an ally of the delicious smell of the cake. And yet, Roger does not move.

At last he blinks, a rigid motion gripping him like a taut flexing of a muscle. His body bristles with tension and goes slack, slumping forward, but not to the point of sprawling across the tile kitchen floor. Roger tilts his head back, unruffled to see Sherridan standing over him, but surprise of finding him there seeming to rifle through some part of his awareness. "Cake?" he questions, misty-eyed and the whites around his irises strained to a pink. An akward slant of a smile distorts his face, at an angle almost sweet and at another confused.

The slant tilts, and it almost becomes sad. "Spot," Roger proclaims, eagerly despite his expression. His mouth twitches and fades to a simple line, his eyes unchanging. He twists his body, his head jerking and following suit, nearly crashing against the center counter and using the side cupboards as leverage to pull himself to his feet. Tottering uneasily, he peers over at the cake, breathless at the layers upon layers of chocolate. His eyes map the course of his name on the cake. R. O. G. E. R. With a blink, he understands, the metaphorical dust of time being brushed from his identity.

"Roger's birthday is today.."

[Sherridan Kaine]

>"Cake?"

"Yes, with lots and lots of chocolate in it. Do you want a piece? Oh, but first you gotta blow the candles and make a wish!" he says, walking quickly over to the drawers and pulling out a lighter (instead of pulling out the huge knives which, in the brotherhood, served a purpose for cutting, cleaving, and killing, the third often times including the first and second), and then lighting each of the eighteen candles.

>"Spot,"

He looks at him for a second in a way betraying a bit of confusion. "Don't you like this one?" he asks, waving his tail subconsciously. It has long since become a habit- if he wasn't using it to hold himself or someone or something else up, or to strangle someone, or hiding it from open sight, it would just sort of move of its own accord. As it is doing right now.

"And after this, I'm going to take you out for some ice cream. As much as you like, with all the extra toppings that you want as well. After all, it is not always that one turns eighteen." he says, and wonders whether Roger's behavior is going to change any once he is older. One can never know everything, eh? he thinks to himself as he puts the cake on the table, waiting for the boy to make a wish and blow the candles, knife already in hand, ready to cut the thing and offer the first juicy piece to Roger.

To Sherridan, it always seems that Roger is rather...well...hard to please. Somehow he always gets the impression that whatever is done, the boy still remains unsatisfied to a certain point.

[Rahne Sinclair]

Rahne has become accustomed to the unusual scents around the Brotherhood’s headquarters… mostly.

Many of them turned out to be good things, once she became accustomed to them… the variety and quality of food available here is an endless source of astonishment to her, and would no doubt leave her waddling like a grain-stuffed pig the week before Christmas if she didn’t take care not to indulge. Others, not so much, and about them the less said the better.

What is wafting into the woods from the Brotherhood’s kitchen is without doubt the second kind. Curious, she interrupts her exploration of the grounds and makes her way towards the source of the stench, going by the stealthy routes she has been systematically exploring since her arrival, tree-branch to tree-branch to roof to wall to window, peeking carefully in as the less objectionable of the two cat-men pulls a cake out of the refrigerator while the daft young boy who seems to be his particular friend sits rigidly.

> " Hey, there buddy! Look what I made you. I hope you like it!"
> “Cake? Spot. Roger’s birthday is today.”

What follows, the birthday cake and lighting of candles, is a ritual she remembers only vaguely from her own youth, something practiced by her schoolmates and the other village children but never her own. Reverend Craig never cared for such things, indeed railed against them as decadent and sinful excesses… and apparently Roger is not entirely engaged by the custom either, to judge from his behavior. The cat-man seems hurt by Roger’s lack of enthusiasm.

> " And after this, I'm going to take you out for some ice cream. As much as you like, with all the extra toppings that you want as well. After all, it is not always that one turns eighteen."

Nae, nor seventeen nor nineteen either, she thinks, but remains silent. This doesn’t seem to be a public occasion, more of a private moment between the two, so she remains where she is without interrupting, curious as to the boy’s eventual reaction.

[Sherridan Kaine]

As he waits for Roger's response, Rhane walks in. Stealth, Sherridan must admit, is a good trait of hers, but, sadly, cat and dog have a...well...sixth sense when it came to the presence of one another. Not to mention that cats hear excellently, and especially so the proud totter of dog feet, and dogs smell just as well, especially the meticulous, clean ways of the cat.

And so he takes a deep breath, quietly though, taking a few seconds to fight back and repress the urge to turn around, drop on all fours, and hiss at the girl, and instead keeps his composure absolutely unchanged. "It is curious, how we seem to have a way of finding each other, especially with all the other...transfixing aromas and rather...inspiring sounds the other members of the brotherhood create. Would you like to join us for a piece of cake?" he says out loud, aware that she can perfectly hear him, and since he does not know what her disposition on the others is, does not try to be overly insulting of the creative sense stimuli the brotherhood is so capable of producing.

"Perhaps you will indulge in some ice cream yourself? The place I am taking young Roger is truly amazing when it comes to the taste of things. We might be able to get to know each other..." he says, perfectly gentlemanly, not in the least bit hinting towards something. Any type of interaction between the two above friendly level would have disastrous consequences, not the least of which would be the conflicting, split personalities of any nightmarish children- it makes one's head hurt horribly.

So, he does not go into those waters, thankful for the fact that felines despise water...most of the time. And it was hard enough to get myself to shower...yeaghhh he thinks back to his teenage years, when it was literally a war when it came to showering or taking a bath. He still hates any puddle of water that has a surface area greater than that of a glass.

[Rahne Sinclair]

Sherridan’s tension when he notices her is obvious, even before he calls out, and Rahne’s impressed by the keenness of his senses. His hearing seems even keener than her own, at least in her humanoid form, and she resolves to improve her capacity for stealth until even he can’t sense her approach.

She still doesn’t understand why he reacts like that to her presence, though. At first she’d thought she’d done something to offend him – perhaps because his “mutation” was so much like her own? – but she can find no complaint in the way he treats her; it’s merely his initial reaction of threat-tension that causes her hackles to rise.

Of course, that might be his honest reaction, and the mannered politeness he displays at other times merely a façade. Rahne is not sophisticated with people, especially not with wealthy Americans, and she knows it; for all she knows his high-and-mighty manners might be put on simply to mock her.

Not that it matters. It’s best to be friendly, but ‘twould be a dangerous error to trust these people, or to let her guard down around them. She knows what she is, after all, and knows how little compunction she would have about turning on them; she knows they are the same, all Satan’s Hunters, and she knows what she can expect from them.

Aye, e’en the daft boy has killer’s eyes, she realizes. She has no idea why Primer keeps the boy here (and there’s a moment’s discomfort as her realization that none of her compatriots can truly be trusted struggles with her instinctive pheromone-reinforced loyalty to their leader, and loses), but she assumes there must be a reason… some “mutation” she has not yet seen in action that marks him as a fellow Hunter. No doubt she would discover it in time.

> " Would you like to join us for a piece of cake? Perhaps you will indulge in some ice cream yourself? The place I am taking young Roger is truly amazing when it comes to the taste of things. We might be able to get to know each other..."

She considers the invitation for a moment, then drops from her hidden perch to join them on the floor. The kitchen tile is cool under her paws, and she ignores the faint traces of burnt food and grease. "Aye… the cake, at least, an’ the company. Happy birthday, Roger… hae ye plans for th’day?"

[Manslaughter]

Yes, with lots and lots of chocolate in it. Do you want a piece? Oh, but first you gotta blow the candles and make a wish! Roger gives a side-long stare at the lit candles burning on the cake, the flames eating the wax until they drip in long, fat streams down the side. He blinks slowly, becoming entranced in the tiny flames that burn away, wafting translucent streams of smoke above them. Don't you like this one? He blinks, nodding slowly, as though unsure of what words he should say. And after this, I'm going to take you out for some ice cream. As much as you like, with all the extra toppings that you want as well. After all, it is not always that one turns eighteen. Roger's eyes fall half-lidded at this promise, blinking rapidly for several moments, willing himself awake.

He thinks he's dreaming.

In some distant part of awareness, he feels another presence, a heartbeat, steady and alert. Roger tilts his head back over his shoulder, listening, but lets it go as Sherriden acknowledges Rahne's presence first, as the boy had known he might. The two converse as Roger shifts his focus back to the birthday cake, the candles of which are still burning brightly and melting at the tips now. Perhaps you will indulge in some ice cream yourself? The place I am taking young Roger is truly amazing when it comes to the taste of things. We might be able to get to know each other.. Aye… the cake, at least, an’ the company. Happy birthday, Roger… hae ye plans for th’day?

Again, the boy nods with no verbal response, toddling carefully towards the cake. He experimentally waves a hand across the top of the candles, scattering the smoke and feeling the heat surge up to his palm. Roger puts his hand back to his side, and the same odd half-smile twitches at his mouth but doesn't start. "..yes," he answers at last, blinking slowly and studying the cake. For a moment he rocks back and forth on his heels, and then he leans forward and blows out the candles in rough puffs of air, just as a child would until each candle is blown out. Almost immediately, he presses the fingers of one hand against his mouth, knowing that revealing a birthday wish meant it wouldn't come true.

What did you wish for, sweetie?

Roger mulls over this thought, the voice in his head melodic and virtually unwavering. It always asked him what he wished for, but Roger knows better than to tell. Hesitant, he suddenly looks at Sherridan, his eyes as always blank, filled with nothing. Somewhere in the demented mind of his, he understands.

He takes a few steps towards him, dropping his hand from his mouth, no longer in fear that the wish would come tumbling from his mouth like a revered secret.

--what did you wish for?

Then in absolute silence, Roger blinks and leans into Sherridan, hands twining up the man's arms. Roger is hugging him.

[Sherridan Kaine]

He keeps watching Roger, confused ever so lightly. Roger has not, as of yet, displayed this amount of detachment from the real world, at least when Sherridan is around. He watches the boy nod in response to Rhane's question, and then hears the slightest of "yes"-es, still watching the boy closely. He seems to wake up from some odd sort of daydream, and then blows out the candles.

Sherridan does not ask Roger what he has wished for, mainly because he himself was constantly being asked that question, and somehow it seems merely a ways to disillusion kids- the parents ask what they wished for, and then get it if it is attainable in the current circumstances. Perhaps parents in general do not quite fully understand that most of the time, the child forgets what it wished for within an hour, and then gets ever so surprised when its wish comes back to memories when it sees it fulfilled. If it does not come true, no harm done, and if it does, it was a magical force that makes life all the more powerful.

His own eyes glaze over slightly as he wanders through the depths of his memory, realizing that not one of his wishes, even though they all came true, were really magical. Not really, no. He was always, in fact, a little sad when he got exactly what he wanted. Once, even, he tried to get what he didn't want by not telling his parents. They found out from the maid. What was the point of spoiling such surprises?

And only when he notices Roger staring at him with that blank expression does he snap out of his own memories. For a moment, it seems that he spots a hint of something unknown in the deepest part of the boy's eyes, but then he moves forward, and then leans into him. And then his arms move up and he hugs Sherridan.

Sherridan's mind grinds to a painful, confused stop, and does a back flip, and then collapses almost completely, leaving open only the part of thought which prevents Sherridan himself doing the same. He stands there for a few moments, absolutely stumped, and then the first natural thing that comes to mind is done. If it is from feline or human nature, or perhaps both, he does not know, but he does it anyway.

His own arms move up and reach behind the boy, and his tail as well curls around his waist. He hugs back, pressing Roger to himself, not quite sure what this means. It feels good, and right, in any case, so he leaves all the mind-destroying problems for later.

[Manslaughter]

Roger breathes in, at the moment unperturbed by Sherridan returning the embrace, feeling a weight tense about his waist that can only be identified as the older man's tail. The moment hangs still, one second and then two pulling along slowly, the very essence of time seeming to waver and slow. A warmth starts inside Roger, spreading to his fingers and toes, tickling with a sensation of fuzz, something that has nothing to do with Sherridan's fine layer of fur. The top of Roger's head barely grazes underneath Sherridan's chin, accented with the fluff of his hair and becoming mussed in the crook of the other's neck.

It is uncertainly familiar, but Roger has to struggle where he's felt this before. Not when he was pressed into a rough embrace at his mother's breast, her heart racing beneath the shell of his ear that she was more frightened than sure. To them both it had been a meaningless clutch, holding on to something that could never last. Tension grips Roger like her arms haunting him, and he shivers at the whisper of a memory, fleetingly holding tighter.

She says nothing to him, holding him close in a desperate attempt to bridge the gap between them. Roger feels her pulse and she feels his, but in all their lives they had never been so far apart.

Then Roger breathes out, and time becomes unstuck, the moment lost.

He lets go, an unconcious effort. Gravity presses a stronger weight, and Roger's arms slide free, hanging limply at his sides. The world turns beneath him, and the boy begins to rock on his heels, dropping his shoulders. And the cake shifts his focus, trails of smoke still shivering the rest of the kitchen in their wake. Over his shoulder, he offers a steady, intent gaze, as though he has forgotten why he is here or what day it is or what his name might be. It hurts to try and remember and Roger blinks, a furrow creasing his brow. Blankly, he looks up at Sherridan--unsure.

[Rahne Sinclair]

At the best of times, Rahne finds it difficult to fit in socially with her new allies. However, this moment seems especially awkward, as though she’s intruding on a private scene. Granted, Sherridan had offered her cake, so it’s not as though she’s here uninvited… but at the same time, she’s reluctant to interrupt what is clearly a strongly emotional moment between him and Roger.

Which mostly leaves her standing awkwardly near the kitchen window, searching for something, anything, else on which to focus her attention. Outside, two squirrels chase each other from tree to tree, and a bird announces its presence in arrogant song, and the faint smell of ozone and moisture promises rain later in the evening. An airplane flies overhead, and she watches its trail for a while.
.
Och, this is foolish, she decides ultimately, stepping all the way into the room for the first time, and shifting into a form as fully human as modesty allows before taking up the knife on the table and cutting Sherridan’s cake into slices. "So, then… who wants cake?"

[Sherridan Kaine]

He feels Roger's hair just bellow his chin, and somehow the feeling that this is right, and good, increases. His eyes close for a moment, before he opens them again, staring off into distance, at nothing in specific. And then he feels a slight shiver, and then a moment of tighter grip, and then the hug stops, and the moment is gone, much like the last little tails of smoke that are being sucked out the window in an onrush of small wind. He lets go himself, and looks at Roger, his tail simply going limp and elegantly sliding down the boy's side, and then his thigh, before returning back to its idle position behind Sherridan.

He notices the blank stare, and for a moment thinks he sees insecurity there. He wants to convey to Roger that he will not be forced to go to any institutions again, and that he will always have a friend in the least, if nothing else, in the feline mutant. He tries to convey his own need to protect the boy as if he was some sort of extremely fragile, yet unimaginably important and valuable memory, or perhaps one of those works of art that their owners revere and build security temples for. But no words come out, and all he can do is send a few bits of the emotion through his eyes.

The blank stare of the boy seems to become agonizing for a moment, as if he is intent not to let anyone in, but the insecurity seems to still be there. Or am I imagining it? he thinks, but shrugs it off mentally, and then notices, unaware of any memory of the movement and intention itself, that his right hand had reached up and is now softly touching Roger's left cheek with the very tips of his fingers covered in the softest of furs. A thought crosses his mind, how he is vulnerable, more so than ever, and it is unsettling to know that a time has come that he has left his emotional guard down, and yet it seems so unimportant at the moment.

He smiles warmly to the boy, as if encouraging him to do something he is scared of, yet he does not know what it is. And then the problems he had shut out come back with a check, and the moment is, once again, gone. What does this all mean? Why do I feel and do all these things around him? Who is Roger, under that exterior? What does he feel, think? and many more questions offer each their own set of painful spikes ready to be shoved in the ethereal mass of his mind.

>"So, then… who wants cake?"

He snaps almost completely back to attention, and his hand finally drifts down the boy's face and back to his side, and then the old Sherridan assumes control once again. He smiles at Rhane, a friendly smile. "I believe we all do, hm?" he says simply, the back of his mind still pondering what had just happened.

[Manslaughter]

Roger turns his head slightly, watching with some regard of curiosity as Rahne twists and changes, a transformation before his eyes that he has never seen before. Faintly he wonders if she is human or wolf, seemingly now a combination of the two, or if she is one or the other, and if so, which is she? He decides human. But then changes his mind and decides wolf again. A featherlight touch whispers across his skin and the boy starts a little, switching his gaze and peering up at Sherridan. The same question crosses his mind.. but only with cat and human.

He blinks at the warm smile Sherridan is giving him, unconciously wanting to mirror what he saw, living better behind that reflection than a blank slate. Empathy. That's what they had called it. Roger's mouth upturns, but akwardly, dreamily, momentarily pushing up his chin so that the man's fingers ghost down across his jaw before he pulls them away. So, then... who wants cake? Again his focus shifts, uncomfortable with handling such unfamiliar emotions, turning towards something simpler. I believe we all do, hm?

Cake.

"Yes." He answers, nodding several eager times. Blinking, he bows his head a little, looking at Rahne in a side-long glance. "...please?" he adds hastily, close to forcing himself to saying it.

The boy peers closer at the cake in the silence, mentally tracing the ups and downs of his name, firmly deciding which piece he wants. He counts the candles while he's at it, each one holding a significance of year. Unconciously, he wants to remove some of them.. an inward part of him knowing that some of his life had been taken from him, and he wants it back. Roger leans against the counter, now staring down his cake intently. Then he wonders. Who is he?

Roger or Manslaughter?

[Rahne Sinclair]

> "I believe we all do, hm?"
> "Yes...please?"

Rahne smiles at the boy’s sudden politeness. "Of course, bairn. And ye get an extra-big piece, seein’ as how it’s yer birthday today, aye?"

Of course, it’s not as though he’s rude the rest of the time, either. It’s more that much of the time he hardly seems to understand social interaction at all. She can sympathize with that, actually: now that she’s living with people again, there’s a universe of social habits she has to re-acquaint herself with, all shrouded in memories from her girlhood, before the Beast had claimed her.

Some of it, the superficial trappings, comes back to her more easily than she expected; she accepts the rituals of plates and forks and knives and individual portions and eating slowly and sharing and milk poured into glasses and sitting at a place at a table. She still has to think about it, granted, and it still feels strange not to be bolting down flesh and lapping blood off the ground and warning off the scavengers and fellow predators who come to challenge her for a share… but less strange than it might have. A girl could get used t’living like this, she ruminates idly.

She wonders, though, if this sort of life will take away her edge. It is not indulgent, precisely… and she is not succumbing to sloth or gluttony… but neither is it as hard or as pure as living off the land was. She could still go back to that, now, with difficulty. In six months or a year, though, she might not be able to.

And this is why she avoids her human form when she can – not just because of modesty, or the way it mutes her senses, but because of all the thinking that comes with it, the worries about tomorrow and next week and next year. In wolf-form, or in more wolven hybrid forms, the world is not only richer, but simpler; these illusions of the future don’t plague her so strongly.

Of course, in those forms she cannot handle a knife and fork so easily, either. So she accepts the compromise, as she accepts so much else in her life, and concentrates on cutting slices of cake and passing them around the table.