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[for Wolverine]
Nov. 19th, 2011 12:37 amThis is the last place anyone would ever think to look for me. The lower-level of the local strip joint-- and on a theme night, no less? Not exactly one of my usual haunts. I can't even remember the last time I've been inside the Catscratch Club. Years ago, I think, back when--
Back when MJ used to work as a singer, here, in the jazz club. I'd watch her perform sometimes, before she stopped. Before Osborn showed up and turned our lives upside down and sideways. I never liked it, honestly, her working here -- not that I said as much. Happy as I was that she was doing something that made her happy, the venue... Leaves a little something to be desired.
Which begs the question: why the heck am I here?
The same reason I ripped a hole through reality and nearly gotten eaten by the Big Bad Wolf, I guess. I pulled a fast fade after we got back, left the scene before anyone could talk to me. There was enough going on that it was easy to slip away, and I've been laying low ever since, mulling over what happened and everything I saw. I haven't even gone back to the mansion. The clothes I'm wearing now, I got from my house.
It was the first time I'd been in that bedroom since May. The only place I never checked after she disappeared, my own version of Schrödinger's Cat. As long as I never opened that door, she could still be behind it. Doesn't matter that I knew she wasn't, I could still cling to that false hope. But false hope's just another way of saying denial, and after yesterday, I'm a long way's away from either.
Pulling my baseball cap down low over my eyes, I sit down next to Wolverine at the bar, knowing I'd find him here. Not that we hang out much, this is just his kind of place. Even when the staff are dressed up like cowboys and Indians, apparently.
I couldn't be anymore uncomfortable in this stool. Maybe I should get out of here, only, nope, here comes the bartender, doing their job. Not looking up when they approach, my gaze fixed pointedly on the wood, I clear my throat a little, and say, "I'll, uh... Have whatever he's having."
Back when MJ used to work as a singer, here, in the jazz club. I'd watch her perform sometimes, before she stopped. Before Osborn showed up and turned our lives upside down and sideways. I never liked it, honestly, her working here -- not that I said as much. Happy as I was that she was doing something that made her happy, the venue... Leaves a little something to be desired.
Which begs the question: why the heck am I here?
The same reason I ripped a hole through reality and nearly gotten eaten by the Big Bad Wolf, I guess. I pulled a fast fade after we got back, left the scene before anyone could talk to me. There was enough going on that it was easy to slip away, and I've been laying low ever since, mulling over what happened and everything I saw. I haven't even gone back to the mansion. The clothes I'm wearing now, I got from my house.
It was the first time I'd been in that bedroom since May. The only place I never checked after she disappeared, my own version of Schrödinger's Cat. As long as I never opened that door, she could still be behind it. Doesn't matter that I knew she wasn't, I could still cling to that false hope. But false hope's just another way of saying denial, and after yesterday, I'm a long way's away from either.
Pulling my baseball cap down low over my eyes, I sit down next to Wolverine at the bar, knowing I'd find him here. Not that we hang out much, this is just his kind of place. Even when the staff are dressed up like cowboys and Indians, apparently.
I couldn't be anymore uncomfortable in this stool. Maybe I should get out of here, only, nope, here comes the bartender, doing their job. Not looking up when they approach, my gaze fixed pointedly on the wood, I clear my throat a little, and say, "I'll, uh... Have whatever he's having."