[ open ] the house was awake with shadows and monsters...

[theycalledmeacurse]

CHARACTERS: Rogue & Anyone
WHERE: Hyrypia - The Red Coast - The Barracks
WHEN: Day :028 - :033
SUMMARY: Rogue has nightmares, including of her time during the war. Anyone in the Nest and especially Avior is welcome to experience them in any fashion and/or be present for the aftermath and/or approach her about them during the day.
WARNINGS: Torture, death, imprisonment. Likely concentration camps and suicidal thoughts.


[ She doesn't mean to, and she'll feel terrible each and every time it happens. The nightmares have been near nightly companions for years now, ebbing and flowing through her sleep like oxygen through her lungs. A sound sleep is nothing more than a ephemeral dream for her now, and hard as she tries to shore up her shields each day, there are still too many cracks in the walls of that old plantation house to keep those dark thoughts contained. The memories of the war, the twisted hallways of her mind, the echoes of screams. She tries so hard, and still every night she wakes with a quiet gasp, shaking on the small bed and clutching the blanket she's been provided, trying with all her might not to wake the others.

Some nights she stays there in the little house, finding what comfort she can in the presence of her Nestmates, and other nights she pulls on her costume and flees, needing fresh air and open skies to remind her that she isn't a prisoner any longer. Sleep isn't something that will come to her easily again, and so she'll be awake for hours to come, even staying up to see the sun rise in the sky. It's a sight she's sorely missed, and even now it doesn't feel quite real. There are times when nothing feels real at all. ]



{ NIGHTMARE : the forest }

[ She doesn't feel the branches that tug at her uniform and scratch at her face, tearing strands of hair as she runs, every ounce of energy focused on staying upright, keeping moving, fleeing for her life. The others are up ahead, she'd stayed behind to give them more time, even seconds too precious to waste now. There are footsteps thundering close behind her, and the searchlights of the Sentinels pan nearby as they work to pinpoint the mutant gene within her.

It's a stone that is her downfall, quite literally. A simple rock the size of her hand, enough of a deterrent to cause her to stumble, balance tipping just long enough, and then there's a body ramming into hers and she fights. Like a wild animal, she kicks and punches with every ounce of strength she has left, scrambling for purchase among those layers of fabric to find even an inch of skin. Just one touch, that's all she needs, but the soldier's snapping a collar around her neck before she can manage it. A collar for the animal they believe she is. And still she fights. ]

{ NIGHTMARE : the lab }

[ Cerebro. The mansion. These monsters had gutted the place she'd called home and turned it into— Hell. She'd seen the gates around the perimeter, heard the screams as she was dragged down to the basement levels. The metal plating that had once been warm is now icy to the touch, barren of familiarity and stained with the souls of every mutant brought inside. Because she knows none of them leave, that isn't what this place is for. They're making the Sentinels stronger by studying mutants, and to do that—

Strapped to a metal table, they stand over her, scientists covered in sterile garb, practically every inch of them hidden from view. They might as well be alien, for all their resemblance to human beings. And as they cut into her, again and again, she sees that cruel humanity in them again. It's for science, the way they slice away a strip of skin from her forearm, right above the string of characters tattooed into her skin. M4827. They're doing their duty as the burn her other arm, searing the skin until it bubbles and blackens. They're saving the world by wheeling in another mutant, restrained and wearing an inhibitor collar, and forcing her bare hand to press against his skin. His scream echoes in her mind as she absorbs him against her will, and she begs them to stop, the words a jumbled mess as his healing factor becomes her own, the wounds vanishing as the skin regenerates, but they don't stop until the light leaves his eyes and there's no one staring back at her anymore.

I'm so sorry. Long seconds pass as they record their findings, and then it begins again. ]

{ NIGHTMARE : the mind }

[ The only home she has left is the one within her mind, the great plantation house Charles had helped her erect nearly two decades ago. Painted white and nestled within a sea of green life, sometimes she sits on that sprawling porch and enjoys a moment of peace and quiet, this being the only place she can retreat where none of the psyches will venture. Her sole source of solitude, a few dozen square feet of space within her own head.

But then she ventures within, passing the tall windows and rising staircases leading to the upper levels where her friends reside, the psyches imprinted over the years who have helped her survive. She moves past all that streaming light, further into the house where things darken and the echoes of those she hadn't been able to save are hidden away. And then down, stairs that creak and moan, into the catacombs where the darkest minds reside, the ones who call to her when she slips, who would rather see her fall and suffer than ever live a free life. The locks are methodically checked on each door, even as they rattle and the shouts within increase in intensity, the insults falling with the same sharpness as always.

Monster. Murderer. Abomination. Maybe they aren't wrong. ]

Comments

the mind, day...29 i guess?

[whereabout]

[ He picked up on it during the night, but he hadn't approached - because Joshua's own default coping mechanism is don't let anyone see what you're dealing with, and he's perhaps a little too quick to ascribe that to other people as well.

Still, it bothers him. The accusations. The insults.

Joshua thinks he has a good sense about bad people (only more so, if one believes the idea that it takes one to know one), and if someone had asked him to rank the nest on a scale of "bad news" to "no worries here," Rogue wouldn't have landed anywhere near the top.

It's going to keep nagging at him, as long as they're sharing brainspace, so he finally approaches her during the day, once he finds a moment where nobody else is too close at hand (even if you can't get that far from anyone, with their situation). ]

Hey. Can...we talk?

[ She'll probably have no trouble telling what about. ]

finally circling back to this

[theycalledmeacurse]

[ Oh, she knows. There's a hint of dread wrapped around her heart, curling itself through her thoughts as she thinks on why would he feel the need to approach her. The dreams (the nightmares) have been especially brutal the past few days, her change in scenery just making the contrast between her life before and life now even more starkly noticeable.

Avoiding talking about any of her problems would be her preference any day, but Joshua is connected to her in a deeper way than most of the Nest. It's because of that that she feels she owes him a measure of honesty on the matter, especially when there's no real avoiding it so long as she can't manage to stabilize her shields while she sleeps.

It's really not all that surprising when he approaches her in the barracks while most of the others have cleared out to find more entertaining pastimes; she gestures to the other end of the bed she'd settled onto, most of her costume folded and set off to the side while in the safe confines of the building. She still wears her gloves though. Always. ]

Of course we can. Have a seat, sugar.

[whereabout]

[ He takes a seat. The awkward is rolling right off him, because he's not good at - feelings, in general, and even more so with someone who, despite their weirdly deep connection, is still so new to him. ]

...I feel like I should probably start with an apology, because I normally wouldn't push on something like this. But...

[ He is 500% respectful of the desire to Not Talk about your trauma.

But they're linked too strongly for him to politely look in the other direction. ]

[theycalledmeacurse]

You don't have to apologize for anything. I'm the one who can't keep my dreams to myself.

[ She feels guilty for it, the heavy burden of it weighing on her chest. He shouldn't have had to experience any of it, not last night's dream or any of the others. And there's no telling when she might be able to stop them from leaking out to the others, which makes her feel even more guilty. It's a vicious circling pit of emotion that she just can't escape. ]

does this work? somehow this is what I typed.

[sistershoggoth]

[ The otherworldy thing that lives in the swampy depths of the woman called Annie Westwind observes. It likes nightmares. They are satisfying: a concoction of strong brain activity and adrenaline, sweat, panic. Something its psychic nature enjoys, like a human might enjoy a good true crime novel, gruesome but engrossing. The touch of tentacles does nothing to soothe Rogue's nightmares. They make it worse. Amplifying all the little details of Rogue's trauma into unescapable awareness.

This is especially easy when Annie shares so many of them.

It makes an ugly conglomerate of a nightmare. Too many dead bodies. Too much loss. Too much fear and helplessness. Things caged. Destroyed. But nothing is linear any longer, everything oozes organically into each other.

It's not exactly the first time for Annie, but it is the first time she's melted into another host quite so vividly. ]

...Sorry, about this.

dreams are weird, we'll roll with it

[theycalledmeacurse]

Sorry about what?

[ Automatic and confused, the words are heavily accented and accompanied by a frown. It doesn't make sense, the apology seemingly coming from nothing, but then perhaps it's simply because Rogue is used to her nightmares ebbing and flowing into deeper pits of darkness. Especially if she'd recently absorbed someone, their memories and fears seeping into and blending with her into a macabre semblance of reality.

Sometimes she realizes it's a dream that she's drowning in. Other times, she wishes again for a way to escape the horrors of her existence. Either way, the dreams always linger after waking, imprinted upon her soul like a smoldering brand of distress. ]

excellent

[sistershoggoth]

[ She squints out around them, aware of the faces and fears that aren't her own, but watching them meld with all of her own bad memories. The two schools, once homes and then turned horrors, cragged together like colliding tectonic plates. ]

Fuckin' nightmares. I do this to people.

[ Touch their minds, stir up thoughts of how senseless and cruel the world truly is. How little anything cares. How helpless, how small. ]

The telepathic shit makes it worse than it ever was.

[ She takes her eyes off one of the many faces that floats around them, taunting, mourning, and turns instead to look at Rogue. ]

I'm not real good at keeping to myself.

[ More than human, she was a sprawling cosmic thing -- on the inside -- bound up in this small body of a woman. ]

the lab

[sizeofyourbaggage]

[ For a very, very long moment, it's too easy to get caught up in Rogue's nightmare. There's so much of Bucky and Shiro in Sam that it folds itself into his time in the Raft, in the too bright lights and the smell of bleach and the squeak of footsteps on the floor, memorizing the guards' route and knowing that anything out of that means they're going to try their luck again -

they can try, they can keep trying but they're never gonna get it out of him, they're never gonna get anything out of him

And it's the hiss of pain in his arm - what arm, they took it and they made it a weapon and he can't - and the clipped orders in a language he doesn't understand but he will - you're doing great work, you're invaluable listen to the crowds cheer -

What's his and what's theirs and what's hers he doesn't know -

He's drowning and there's water in his lungs and -

No.

Sam knows, he shakes himself enough that he can feel the difference between reality and what this is, he can feel the pull of Rogue's mind and suddenly he's there, fingers laced through hers as he holds her hand, as he ignores the scientists in the background as if they weren't even there.

He doesn't completely understand, but he knows - she can hurt everyone else but she can't hurt him, not here, not like this. This isn't real, he reminds himself, even if he can't tell her that, not when he's not willing to try to take control here and pull her out of this. He doesn't want to fight her demons for her, he just wants to help.

Sam holds her hand, and concentrates on the fact that she can't hurt him, on the feel of skin to skin, the warmth of her palm to his, and nothing else. ]

( You're not alone, darlin', come here. )

[theycalledmeacurse]

[ The feeling of someone's hand in hers sends her heart racing, pulse pounding in fear of yet another person hurt because of her, because of what they're making her do, and her gut reaction is to try to pull away. But then--

It's not hurting him. There's no telltale tug of her powers, no coil of energy pouring from him into her. His hand is just there, pressed against hers, and it's enough to knock the dream askew. They're no longer on the platform in Cerebro but below it, sitting on the bed suspended in the curved bottom of the large spherical room. The bed that is nothing more than a slightly padded slab, no pillows or blankets in sight, nor any other element of comfort. Just grey, everywhere grey, even on her. ]

What're you doing here, sugar? You're not in my head.

[ A moment of half-lucidity has gripped her, providing the knowledge that she hasn't ever absorbed Sam and he certainly hadn't been a prisoner here, but it hasn't quite clicked yet that she's dreaming. Soon, not yet, but until then she's torn between staring at him in confusion and marveling at the feeling of holding someone's hand again. ]

[sizeofyourbaggage]

[ No, he hadn't been a prisoner here, but in the worlds of dreams and nightmares, it's too easy for two different prisons - three, four - to merge together. For a moment there's a chill in the air, a strange edge of pressure like being too far under water, a wash of other worldly purple light - then he pulls in a deep breath and lets it out as it flickers and fades, leaving nothing but grey as he sits down next to her.

He takes her other hand, too, tangling their fingers together and just holding on, giving them both something to try to keep them grounded. There's no comfort here, but he can try to give her some anyway. ]

I'm here to keep you company. You're not gonna be stuck in here alone, not as long as I can help it.

( the mind )

[stilettoes]

[ grand old house and its grand old bones. it's a wondrous thing at first, like walking into a peaceful painting from a time he's only read about on earth - lush and green on the outside with a wide open porch and doors that are just as open. it's surreal, the way he can feel her going through each and every one of the motions, step for step like a ghost. the hallways start off as any hallway might in such a house, ensconced in daylight from tall windows, but rapidly shifting the further down she goes, an almost descent that he can feel prickling along the edges of his consciousness, catching on the barbs of his mind and pulling down until she makes her landing with careful steps.

it doesn't sound like distress at first, not until the voices start as she lays her hands on each lock. quiet little hissing things from the dark, behind doors that tremble and rattle loudly and locks that respond in kind. down here, it is dark, crypt-like almost, a methodically kept prison where things moan out, unforgiving, unrelenting. he can feel it pitch deep in his chest as their whispering goes on: monster. murderer. abomination.

(but what's been birthed into that empty space in avior doesn't feel nearly as horrific as they voices say. the softest impression of a person that leaves a sweet aftertaste on the back of his tongue like chocolate in the past few days. it's quite hard to believe that all of those names belong to her.)

he doesn't quite realize he's on the steps leading up until something cool like a rail is under his hand, watching her now with his eyes (or with his mind's eyes? both perhaps?) as she is bowed over one lock in particular, the thing inside jeering monster! monster! like a school child on a playground, taunting. but he's here now, wherever here is, a house like a body, with its soul as much in its windows as it is in the depths of its basement, howling. he stands on the bottom most step. beautiful and terrifying, aching sweetly. ]

( Now, now, name calling's not very nice. )

[ his voice is soft, a muted brushed velvet, a kind offering of silk, a warm jacket stretched out and offered. ]

( I think you've spent enough time down here, darling. )

[theycalledmeacurse]

[ She feels him there with her, following behind like a ghost, a part of her soul detached and finally come home. It's something she's felt before, and even now in the hold of the dream, she recognizes it. Brood. The people who feel like family but are still strangers, the allies in this war who she should be closest to. His name is missing but it doesn't matter — names don't matter much anyway, she knows that better than most.

Turning to look at the face that goes along with that honeyed voice, there's almost a spark of awareness, a hint of recognition that this is a dream, but it flits along the edges of her mind like petals on a breeze. ]

( They'd say it's not nearly enough. What if they're right? )

[ There's an aching exhaustion in those smooth southern vowels, and a plea for answers that he couldn't possibly give. Answers to questions she's wrestled with for her whole life, etched in the pain wrapped around her heart. ]

[stilettoes]

[ the exhaustion creeps in, light little fingers at first pressing in heavier and heavier with the weight of it all. this is a heavy one, brick and mortal and wood and nail, a pretty estate entrapping something so bleak in the bowels of it. in the end, it's true, peter won't have the answers she wants or needs, seeks. so instead, he gives a shake of his head, braced on one hip lightly and leaning in the threshold, an alley cat that's gone and slipped in through the window. ]

( Well then that's awfully selfish of them, now isn't it? )

[ no fear for her voices here in this cellar, aging like wine gone off. he holds out a hand to her, a subtle offering she can take or leave if she likes, but a lifeline none the less. he offers her a smile, a curling of soft lips, straight to gray eyes behind his glasses. he brings a foot back up one step, an invitation. step up, step up. ]

( I'd like a turn, if you don't mind. They're already far too well acquainted with you and you and I have only just met. )

lab (8

[shiro2hero]

[It's the metal table that does it.]

[He's not as attuned to the distress of Rogue as he would be someone else. Someone he was closer to. But the similarities. The table. The restraints. The cold stares -- looking at you like you're something beneath concern. Beneath their compassion. Like you were just a thing.]

[He can feel it start. Feel the threads of panic and the familiar tint of purple taking over his dream. The people of her mind, of her memory, giving out clipped orders in a language he doesn't understand, phantom pains in an arm, in what arm they took it...]

[He screams.]

[Things are dripping from the ceiling. Bubbling like the poor man's arm in her dream. There are whispered words and remembered cheering crowds and you will be our weapon in a promise as if it's going to save the world...]

[Somewhere, he reaches out. Blindly. For anyone - for her. Metal fingers grasping for the mind he can feel. Someone has to stop this.]

[Someone, please...]

[theycalledmeacurse]

[ Rogue's mind is attuned to noticing the presence of other minds, years of living with telepaths teaching her how to pick up the little signs. It's more difficult during dreams, especially nightmares where her own stress level is elevated, but when someone else enters who is equally stressed— It's her natural state of being to take care of others, to worry more about them than herself, and so her focus instinctively turns toward that new arrival, the dream shifting to accommodate.

No longer strapped down to that table, she rushes to the stranger's side, shoving away those faceless monsters who would haunt them forever if they could. It's all a blur of needing to protect, to save, not herself (never herself) but this man who is in such pain. There's not even a second of hesitation before she takes that reaching hand in her own, bare skin on metal, her other hand going to his shoulder. ]

[shiro2hero]

[Why is he so weak here? Why can't he fight this? Why does this happen every time he dreams this? Every time he sees this? He has to reach out. He has to pull someone else in.]

[She finds his hand. He grips hers. Pulling as she does. Lifting as she does. Bits of the dream starting to drop away like shooting stars falling to earth.]

[Is she okay? Is she all right?]

[Both his hands find hers. Holding on tighter.]

idk what day but def the morning after.

[detestable]

[ The nightmares are sort of inevitable, from Seth's position. Pack a bunch of people together, link their brains, and of course whatever shit they've got keeping them up at night is going to overflow. Seth's been managing to barricade the worst of everyone else's thoughts during the day, but at night he's not having as much luck. It's hard to keep your guard up when you're trying to get some sleep, he's found out.

Finding the culprit takes a day or two. Seth doesn't like deliberately touching other people's minds. He treats it like bumping into people in a crowd, knocking elbows and muttering an apology. All he has to do is go down the line of the newly arrived folk, one by one, until someone's mind strikes familiar. ]

Not sleeping well?

[ It's a fairly blunt opening salvo, though Seth puts a cup of tea down in front of her in some attempt to soften it. His veils are still on, though the barracks are emptying out for the day. He doesn't usually come back after he's set out, but he suspects this isn't the kind of conversation that should happen out in the open anyway. ]

[theycalledmeacurse]

[ It's not the first time someone's approached her the morning after one of her nightmares, after she's woken and felt a lingering trace of having touched someone else's mind with her own. There's a veil of guilt wrapped around her now, a sorrow at having caused other people to suffer with her. These people don't deserve that, they had no part in what her life used to be, and she's trying so hard to move on from what was left behind. It's only been a few days though, and even this steel magnolia isn't strong enough to overcome that much trauma in so little time.

Her shields are back in place now, the walls of the plantation house refortified as the sun rose over this little village, cracks painted over with fresh plaster. One day they'll mend on their own and maintenance will be easier, but that day isn't today. Today she is still a little broken, yet she's able to smile apologetically up at the stranger whose face she can't guess. ]

I never do. [ Her own veils are folded nearby, the rest of the layers of her costume in place for when she ventures beyond the barrack walls again, but now she slips off her gloves and reaches out to wrap bare hands around that cup of tea before continuing with her apology in that soft southern drawl. ]

Thank you for this, sugar. I'm guessing you've gotten roped into some of my dreams? I'm awful sorry if you have, I know they're not all that pleasant.

[detestable]

Yeah, well. You're not the only one with some ugly thoughts rattling around up there.

[ Which is useful, because at least if everyone's having shitty dreams then Seth's shitty dreams won't stick out. ]

Is it always that bad?

[ Her guilt is palpable. Guilt's becoming a very common theme in this hivemind. Seth figures at some point he might as well ask their benevolent overlords if that was a recruiting factor. ]

You shouldn't apologize, by the way. This dream shit isn't your fault.

[ There's plenty that Seth actively blames people for in this place. But dreams? That's sufficiently out of their control. He doesn't have it in him to take her to task over what happens when she's asleep. ]

[raw]

[ Elliot's sleep schedule is whack. It's mostly out of a desire for solitude: easier to get if he sleeps through the morning into the afternoon, then takes advantage of the night to have his time alone. Sometimes he doesn't bother finding anywhere private, just sits in the barracks with the other sleeping hosts, awake and skimming his mind along their dreams, practicing synergy with his symbiote, trying to get better at blocking.

What that means tonight is that he isn't woken up when Rogue rouses, pulls her robes about her and steps out. Curious as a little cat, Elliot follows — but as quiet as he tries to be, he's not a ninja, and even if he was would it matter? She's one of the new arrivals, and they're connected on a gut level, some soul deep knowing. He can follow her through the dark because he can feel her — there's no doubt that she can feel him too.

But he doesn't speak first. ]

[theycalledmeacurse]

[ Of course she can feel him. It's like being followed by a ghost, a piece of her soul trailing behind on its way home to her. Strange how they've not yet met and yet she feels so close to him already, the pull of their bond making her want to be closer, to keep him safe in this war. This is the effect of the symbiote, she knows that, but she accepts it and doesn't fight the sensation.

Walking toward the manor, she stops at the edge of the orchard behind it, the wind quietly moaning through the branches as it flicks at their robes. For most, it would probably be an unsettling sound, but for Rogue - it's just wind, and she's missed hearing its music. ]

( I'm sorry if my dreams bothered you, sugar. You could feel them, couldn't you? Some of the others have... )

[raw]

( Everyone dreams. )

[ She's not the only one with nightmares. Because it had been a nightmare, of scientists and metal and anguish. Things that are not familiar to Elliot in that particular setting, but still told him that she was from a world that had certain technologies, just like him. Sometimes their brood feels like one big culture clash — Bakugo's superpowers and Japanese versus Hadrian's neon interstellar future. And now a science lab. ]

( Did that actually happen to you? )

[ Though he sort of realizes that curiosity is insensitive a moment after he asks, social anxiety berating him. ]

( You don't have to answer that. )

[ He comes closer whether she does or doesn't, gloved fingers tucked into his sleeves for warmth against the wind as he steps up beside her, unembarrassed to be caught. ]

MIND.

[iuno]

[ what did Nureyev say to him that first time they met? back when he was playing at being someone else entirely, with a high sweet voice and a cruel tongue. some kind of comparison between a person's house and a person's mind, that you can tell a lot about one from the other; and then that Juno had implied everyone has a monster stalking their halls, when he'd really just been spouting off the usual snappy pessimistic bullshit he always has running on director's commentary. but — well, he has to admit. if it's true, then Juno already knows that the monster in the halls of his home is himself.

so he feels strange, on-edge and almost guilty, about wandering through a place like this. it's not like any home he's ever been in, and it's not a feeling he's ever felt, this heady mix of warmth and tranquillity in the atmosphere like an incense, cloying in his senses. he's sure that if he touches anything, it will rot under his hand, love peeling away from the walls in decay. he doesn't touch. he follows the vague pull towards what seems like the center, which must be whoever owns the dream he's wandered into. it's an easy conclusion to reach, even with his limited time in the Nest so far and mostly hazy recollections of other people's sleeping minds; this couldn't possibly belong to him.

he finds Rogue down below and the feeling there is much more familiar. home sweet home. ]

( Nice place you've got here. ) [ he doesn't bother being delicate about it. he's in her head. they're miles past the point of delicacy already and there's no way to soften the blow, so he won't waste either of their time. ] ( It's too bad about the company. )

[ the joke might be lost without the impressions shared in a hivemind, but with that connection, it's clearer that he's being funny — he means himself. he's the bad company, get it? after all, he was making himself into a shrapnel bomb when he and Rogue met, and he's sure she doesn't want him in her head any more than he wants to be here. ]

[theycalledmeacurse]

[ With so many of others who have wandered (or been pulled against their will) into Rogue's dreams, it's also been her first meeting with them. Seeing Juno standing there, feeling a presence she recognizes, is a much-needed relief from the cyclical nightmare that never quite leaves her, even during the waking hours.

Turning toward him, she sets a hand on her hip and tilts her head to the side, leaning ever so slightly away from the door she'd just been checking. Gotta put a little distance between her and whoever it behind that sheet of steel, even if the reality is they're forever in her mind and there's no escaping. ]

( I don't know, I think you could pull off house-guest just fine, sugar. )

[iuno]

[ they don't need to be sharing a mental link for it to be obvious that Juno doesn't believe her on that count. he's rarely welcome anywhere even when all of his bullshit is contained safely inside his own head; with the Nest, he feels like he may as well just be bleeding on the carpet everywhere he goes. he doesn't make apologies for it, but the guilt touches Rogue whether he means it to or not, a bitter taste and a discomfort with being here — I don't belong here, steady and certain as a heartbeat.

this is a home, and Juno is... Juno is rot in the wood. it doesn't bother him, he knows what he is, as sure as he knows that he shouldn't be here. but navigating the Nest is hard enough when he's awake; he's not sure how to untangle himself from this without pulling at parts of Rogue too. ]

( If I'd known I was going to be dropping by, I'd have gotten dolled up first. ) [ sarcastic, although not entirely untrue. he was never as lavish as Nureyev even on his best days, but he does miss cosmetics. ] ( You come down here to check the locks? )

[ it isn't prying; he just can't get rid of the detective habit even when he's asking a question out of curiosity. really, he can't figure Rogue out. he can understand why he would be down here, because he'd be torturing himself, knowing it's what he deserves. she didn't seem the type. ]