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The Great Escape; during the party
Topic Started: May 28 2012, 03:03 PM (367 Views)
Northstar
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Jean-Paul wasn't entirely certain why he'd agreed to the lap dance. Really, it was more that he hadn't argued, and then there had been a thonged backside in his face, and this had made him laugh -- possibly due to the large quantity of Scotch he'd imbibed just previous. At least she had agreed to actually stay out of his lap.

But he had somehow created a monster. A three-headed, leopard-print pasty wearing, cheap drugstore perfume smelling, Jersey river-water drinking monster that no amount of Scotch could ever purge from his brain. Why it had fixed on him, Jean-Paul couldn't say. Maybe because he was the only drunk man in a room full of drunks without grabby hands? No, Summers the Elder had looked rather traumatized -- certainly he wasn't doing any grabbing, poor thing. And McCoy was too polite for that. And they weren't attracting multiple rejects from Jersey Shore.

Apparently his rainbow beacon was broken. Or, worse still, making him a target. Women were very strange about these things.

All this unfairness would be much easier to endure if his glass weren't empty. But if he stood up now, he would have to move one of them out of the way. And that would mean he'd have to touch them. For now, they seemed content with touching each other and gyrating a few feet in front of him, but he didn't want to give them any wild ideas.

Well, it still beat the last bachelor party he'd been to, which had been about homophobic comments and shotgun-wielding unhinged men. And Jeanne-Marie had called him at three in the morning to bail her out of jail.

Only, this wasn't actually better than that. Because his glass was still empty.

He said, "Why don't you do something useful and get me a drink?"

The woman with the red leather thong laughed. "Honey, what do I look like?"

He considered this carefully. There were many options, but only one seemed to sum up her singular charm perfectly: "A sea hag?"

She had her friend's tongue in her ear, though, which prevented her hearing.

Jean-Paul sighed. It was hopeless. He was trapped in a corner with boring, potentially toxic strippers and no Scotch. He hated to admit it, but... he should've listened to Rogue.

He glanced around for Wolverine. Maybe he would get him a drink. Or call off his friends.

Where the hell was everyone, anyhow?
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Wolfsbane
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Rahne Sinclair was on a Mission. Not a Mission from God, but from her mother, which was near enough to the same thing except for the part where she actually wanted to make Moira happy. Well, that wasn’t it, exactly either - she would have quite liked to make God happy, really she would, but her mother’s instructions were a lot closer to the course of actions she wanted to follow than many of God’s had ever been.

It had sounded simple enough to begin with, at least. Emma Frost, former Massachusetts Academy headmistress and generalised weaver of who-knew-what sort of nefarious deeds, who apparently was now an X-man, had thrown the bachelorettte party. Rahne supposed it was a braw enough party, as it went, and certainly the Bride-to-be and several of the others seemed to be enjoying themselves full well, and no one had turned evil yet, or into soulless automatons. All in all, and especially given that she herself had been trained by Magneto, the Scots girl ought to have been able to give the White Queen the benefit of the doubt...

...it was just that there was one glaring piece of evidence of Emma Frost’s evil staring both she and Moira in the face, even if the rest of the party seemed oblivious, and that was the woman’s idea of a bar.

All the drinks available had been pink, or sugared, or... and Rahne made a face to herself again just thinking about it... milky. The barely-clothed bartender had attempted to be charming about it, but his very white smile couldn’t do much in the way of making up for the fact that there was, apparently, no whisky (of the real, Scots sort) to be had there.

It was a tragedy, and though they had done their best at gamely sampling some of the horrifically insipid ‘jello shots’, they had come to the end of the tether, and Rahne had her mission - to find the Bachelor party, and steal, beg, or... well, not borrow, because that didn’t seem like a braw plan at all... whatever Scotch she could find.

Now that she was there, listening just outside the door of Scott’s party to the goings on inside, Rahne was beginning to have a few second thoughts. Though it actually sounded a wee bit less crazed than what had been starting up back at the Bachelorette (Moira had suddenly become very insistent that she required Scotch immediately, just after the mention of body shots, which Rahne was still trying to puzzle out, because when Rachel had suggested it, the telepath had been calling for tequila, not whisky), it was still a party. A party full of men older than she, and if she’d been overhearing things right, strippers.

Rahne had never met a stripper before, though she supposed now she was descended from one. And she had danced on tables herself. So they couldna be so bad, really?

A peek around the doorway, toward the nearest corner, had her hopes (and her jaw) dropping. There were three of them. Leopard print, red, and black leather, and not very much to be seen of any of it, amidst a sea of bare flesh, and only the very fewest of signs of something male underneath it. Rahne looked at it, swallowing hard. Had her mother... (her first mother. Definitely not Moira)...?

Because anything was better than thinking about that too much, she edged herself forward, along the wall where she’d be mostly hidden in the shadows, should anyone happen to look over. It happened to be bringing her closer to the strippers and their prey, but the only other way to get near the bar would be to cross through the main thrust of the party, and she couldn’t bring herself to do that.

As she neared, Rahne wrinkled her nose a little. She could admit to being a very inexperienced teuchter lass, and there were certainly a lot of things she was still learning about the world, and she wasn’t exactly sure what it should smell like, when there were strippers. The stale perfume and whiffs of liquor seemed to fit with what she’d overheard people talking about. But... wasn’t it also supposed to be at least a wee bit fun? She would have imagined that it would have to be, for people to do it when it was so clearly sinful, but the closer she got, the more she was wondering, because all this smelled like were people who were either bored or angry, or possibly both.

"Why don't you do something useful and get me a drink?" Rahne overheard a male voice say, from behind the screen of very nearly naked female bodies.

The woman with the red leather thong laughed. "Honey, what do I look like?"

A seelie hag, Rahne thought to herself, remembering some of the images of succubi from the books of demons the Reverend had occasionally lingered on for hours at nights. But it was unkind of her, and she silently reprimanded herself for ill-judging the woman. After all, who was she to stand in judgement over anyone?

"A sea hag?" came the man’s reply, and before she could stop herself, Rahne had let out a strangled, choking sort of a snort. It wasn’t quite the same as her unkind thought, but it had been close enough to surprise her.

She stepped forward a little, trying to get to a position where she could actually make out who exactly this man was (and whether he was a telepath, in which case she’d need to find out whether she would have to request that he not judge her for being uncharitable). Though he was being a little uncharitable himself. “Och, perhaps if you asked her nicely?” the Scots girl suggested, after a little more thought suggested that being who she was, she ought to try to stick up for the women.
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Northstar
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Someone snorted.

Jean-Paul blinked, trying to sort out which of the scantily clad and utterly ineffective women before him had made the sound. He really hoped Logan hadn't brought in farm animals. Though Jean-Paul couldn't put his finger on why, precisely, that seemed like it would be Logan's idea of a good time, it didn't matter. If the man's taste hadn't been suspect before, it was now.

Well, he did have good taste in liquor. Which, again, was not in Jean-Paul's glass.

Useless sea hag.

“Och, perhaps if you asked her nicely?”

Jean-Paul blinked some more, and the sea of flesh before him parted to reveal a slight, red-headed girl with a wide-eyed but determined look on her face. He cocked his head, about to let fly some off-handed remark or another --

And then realized with uncharacteristic slowness that, yes. She had parted the sea. A little more, and he could stand and move without accidentally infecting himself with a bad case of Jersey.

"What an excellent idea. Just for that, I'm going to get you a drink," he said with a smirk. "Excuse me, ladies, I need to get a drink for my friend -- um --"

He waved vaguely, indicating that the women should part further. He recognized the girl, one of those Excalibur types, but that was as far as he got with it. If the X-Men were going to keep popping out another ginger mutant girl every few years, how could anyone keep track?

"Well, I don't know her name, but she deserves a drink. Or three. Now, sil vous plait..." More waving.

The women stared at him, clearly annoyed by his lack of attention to their slowing gyrations. One of them still had her tongue in another's ear, but that was far from the most disturbing thing about the tableau. And yet, there was a red-headed, oddly-accented light at the end of this long, dark tunnel, now.
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Wolfsbane
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The wall of flesh parted a wee bit, enough for Rahne to make out, framed by some rather generous bosoms, the face of a man with dark hair and pointed ears. He looked a little like Feron... or at least, Feron’s older, more rebellious and generally grumpier brother. Which was quite concerning, when you stopped to think, as Feron was more than grumpy enough to be getting along with already.

"What an excellent idea. Just for that, I'm going to get you a drink," he said with a smirk. "Excuse me, ladies, I need to get a drink for my friend -- um --" Both of Rahne’s eyebrows crept up a little. He was looking in her direction, sort of. Was he talking about her? His friend? "Well, I don't know her name, but she deserves a drink. Or three. Now, sil vous plait..." More waving.

The Scots girl took a moment to puzzle things out again. He didn’t know her name, and he didn’t seem at all friendly, even though he had excused himself this time, and even said please - she thought she remembered that being the French way of saying it. This was definitely not going as she’d expected, when she’d planned to sneak into the men’s party. Well... though she hadn’t really known what to expect at all, so perhaps this wasn’t so very strange. Perhaps angry men speaking french to strippers and offering people they’d only just met drinks happened all the time, because how would she know?

The strippers themselves hadn’t moved, perhaps because they either didn’t understand French, or weren’t totally up on hand waving either. But since the man had tried to be polite, Rahne reasoned that she ought to try to help him now, so she tapped the nearest of the much taller women lightly on the arm. “I’m unco sorry for being forward,” she began, looking up earnestly into the face and its overabundance of make-up, “but perhaps you might think about maybe leaving him be? Only, well I dinna think as he’s enjoying himself very much. And anyway it isn’t actually his party, you ken?”

For a moment, all three women stared at her, and then they all burst out laughing together. Rahne frowned a little in confusion. Had she been using the wrong words again? American was difficult again, after being home for so long. But they were smiling at least, and the one in the red reached out and ruffled her hair, before they linked arms and started to leave. “Thanks ever so much,” the Scots girl added as they began to stalk off. She pointed in the direction she’d last noticed Cyclops, when she snuck in. “You’ll be wanting the one over there, with the red glasses.”

There, and they were gone. They had seemed nice enough, although she was still having more than a wee bit of trouble imagining her mother... well, anyway.

“It’s Rahne.” She turned back to look up the seelie-looking man, but then remembered, not for the first time, the trouble with her name. It always needed explaining. “My name... it’s Rahne,” she clarified, “I’m unco sorry again, but I dinna think I ken yours either.”
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Northstar
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Jean-Paul was not so far gone that he failed to register the annoyance on the oddly-painted faces of the women before him. Unfortunately, that was all the response they gave. As in, they weren't moving. Well, he hoped they didn't think he was standing up and touching them, because he'd made the ground rules perfectly clear on that score. He could yell at them, maybe. Except that would take so much effort, and he really did require more to drink before he could exert any great effort. At least of that sort. And --

[Rahne] tapped the nearest of the much taller women lightly on the arm.

Jean-Paul made a face. Brave girl. Yes, she certainly deserved a drink, if only they'd move. He considered stomping his foot in annoyance, but even as sodden as it was, his dignity wouldn't allow it.

“I’m unco sorry for being forward,” she began, looking up earnestly into the face and its overabundance of make-up, “but perhaps you might think about maybe leaving him be? Only, well I dinna think as he’s enjoying himself very much. And anyway it isn’t actually his party, you ken?”

Jean-Paul slumped in his seat. Not only brave, but with a certain clarity of thought, it seemed. He understood perhaps seventy percent of what she'd said, which was part accent and part what he was sure was not English at all. But the sea-hag and her compatriots linked arms, made some affectionate gesture or another toward the girl, and started off. Jean-Paul would not complain.

No matter what Jeanne-Marie said, he was capable of going an entire evening without complaint. So there.

“Thanks ever so much,” the Scots girl added as they began to stalk off. ... “You’ll be wanting the one over there, with the red glasses.”

He snorted, adding, "Oh yes, by all means, his name is Scott." Clarity of thought and a good sense of style, too. Yes, he liked her rather a lot, just now.

“It’s Rahne.” She turned back to look up [to Jean-Paul].

He cocked an eyebrow. Rain? Was that some sort of girldrink, or --?

“My name... it’s Rahne,” she clarified, “I’m unco sorry again, but I dinna think I ken yours either.”

Ah, yes, Rahne. That made more sense. Unco was a bit hazy, but he'd stopped trying to work out those quirks in the English language years ago. The important thing was that the retreating backsides of the three Jersey beasts, in all their oddly thonged glory, were well on their way to further traumatizing an already cowering Cyclops.

He smiled at his red-headed savior and, in a sudden flurry of speed, flashed to her side and held out the hand not occupied with his woefully empty glass. "I am Jean-Paul, Rahne, and I am very, very happy to meet you."

His eyebrow re-cocked. "I don't know how you knew I required a rescue, but let me repay you. That drink, maybe?"
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Wolfsbane
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The seelie man snorted when she directed the Strippers to the right direction for the chief guest of the party, but he did smell happier, all of a sudden. "Oh yes, by all means, his name is Scott." he said, and Rahne nodded. Names were important things to know...

...which reminded her that the man had asked hers a little earlier - or at least, he’d said that he didn’t know it - and she’d forgotten to tell him. She introduced herself, though she fankled it up some the first time, forgetting about how it sounded out of nowhere. He raised an eyebrow at her, which had the effect of making him look even more seelie than he had earlier, before she caught on, and tried again, this time explaining more carefully that it actually was a name, and not a comment about the weather outside.

Well.. he was smiling - wait, where had he gone? Startled by his sudden disappearance and even more sudden reappearance right next to her, Rahne couldn’t quite just manage to turn the involuntary growl that wanted to come out of her throat into a gulp in time, and felt terrible about it. Even Moira, who was impossibly, gloriously lax on matters of sinfulness, would probably think it was very impolite to growl at people when they were introducing themselves. "I am Jean-Paul, Rahne, and I am very, very happy to meet you."

He was smiling. With widened, ever so slightly dubious eyes, she looked up at his face. The words were gey polite enough, and he was very handsome when he smiled, but he did appear to be showing a tendency toward exaggeration. All she’d done was ask the women to leave him alone, because he didn’t seem to be doing very well asking himself... and why had he been asking, anyway?

And also, though he said it a slightly different way than she was used to hearing, Rahne had heard the name John-Paul before. That was the last Pope, the one whose dirty Papist ways the Reverend had liked to rant about. With a name like that, the man in front of her almost certainly had to be a Papist himself. Just enough of the manners that Rahne had had impressed on her as a child remained to keep her from frowning at the thought, and the man, but it was a close-run thing. A Papist... though she supposed that maybe they weren’t actually evil demons. Except for Kurt, anyway, and he was a perfectly lovely demon, now that she’d come to know him. And Roberto was a Papist too, and he was only evil if you tried to change the channel while he was watching Magnum P.I.. Perhaps it was just like scientists, where it was best to ignore most everything that the Reverend had ever said about them, as a group.

And so Rahne smiled back at him, albeit cautiously.

"I don't know how you knew I required a rescue, but let me repay you. That drink, maybe?"

Shyly giving the dark-haired man a considering sort of look, Rahne shrugged one shoulder. How she knew to rescue him? It wasn’t as if it had taken brains the size of Kitty’s to hear what he said and then rephrase it for the Strippers. But since he was offering a drink, which happened to be exactly why she’d been there to help him, she decided to to look upon it as an instance of God’s Plan. Or perhaps Moira’s.

“Och. Well... if you wouldna...” she paused, remembering that she was supposed to be trying to speak American, “er...I mean wouldn’t mind. I... well I do not want to put you out, only I did come here because there was no Single Malt at the other party.” She paused again, chewing at her bottom lip. Did that make her sound ungrateful, when they’d gone to the trouble of inviting her? And would it be terribly improper of her to specify a gift drink further? Only it would be unco bad if he were to go to all the trouble but come back with a Speyside that neither she nor Moira would be able to drink in good conscience. “Ummm... Talisker, if they have it. Or Ardbeig.”

There, hopefully that would prevent awkwardness, though she felt horribly impolite. There was just one more thing, which was probably more than she ought to ask, but he had been rather nice to her so far, at least compared to the bored, drawling way he’d had when he talked to the strippers.
“Would...” she started, then stopped as her nerve very nearly failed her completely. But the memory of her mother (Moira) glaring at a jello shot and wincing as she knocked it back galvanised Rahne's faltering reserves of courage in the face of impoliteness “...do you think it would be possible to get a whole bottle?”
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Northstar
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The red-headed savior made a funny little sound when he introduced himself. Jean-Paul wasn't sure what it meant, but he also wasn't sure he wanted to know. Red-heads from particular group of mutants were usually extremely dangerous, and that was almost a growl.

No. Absurd. She was a very sweet girl, a very smart girl, and, apart from owing her a debt of gratitude,he had an idea she might be a thousand times more interesting than anything else he'd seen for the last hour or so. Which wasn't saying much, but was, at least, saying something. He introduced himself and watched her eyes, already rather liquid and innocent, widen further.

Perhaps she'd never met a French-Canadian. Poor, sheltered thing. Well, he didn't mind having to educate someone. Being the token queer was immensely irritating, as he'd recently discovered, but being the token Quebecois was God's work.

She smiled. And he offered her that drink.

She shrugged, a demure sort of, "oh, it's nothing, sir" gesture. It was so distressingly Dickensian of her that he cocked his head, examining her closely as she spoke again.

“Och. Well... if you wouldna...” she paused, [...] “er...I mean wouldn’t mind. I... well I do not want to put you out, only I did come here because there was no Single Malt at the other party.” She paused again, chewing at her bottom lip.

Jean-Paul made a disapproving face. Rogue had promised him the Other Party would be quite superior. They had no right to this title without a decent Single Malt in the bar, however. And this poor, strange little creature, forced to come into this den of reality show rejects just to get a decent drink... it didn't seem fair, really.

“Ummm... Talisker, if they have it. Or Ardbeig.”

A satisfied smile spread across his face. "With pleasure. I'll have one myself, now you mention it."

But no, wait. She didn't seem to be quite satisfied. A this point, however, Jean-Paul would have retrieved half of the wine cellar for her, had she asked.

“Would...” she started, then stopped...

Jean-Paul raised both eyebrows in the hope of encouraging her.

“...do you think it would be possible to get a whole bottle?"

"Not only is it possible...." He leaned forward just slightly and lowered his voice as if telling a secret. Not too near, of course, as he was nowhere near drunk enough to invade anyone's personal space, but particularly a Dickensian little Scottish girl. But near enough to make a good show of it. "But it's guaranteed. Two bottles, even.

"But let me ask you one question first, if you don't mind?" He paused for it. Then, "Apart from the lack of Single Malt, how's the other party?"

Not that he had absolutely to decided to abandon this one, of course. But it was best to keep the options open, on a long evening like this one. And he had been invited.

And had refused. And perhaps expressed annoyance at being invited in the first place. But Rogue would forgive him. Because... well, he'd come bearing liquor, that was why.

(If any of that would throw her off, Reenie, just lemme know and I'll fix him up.)
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Wolfsbane
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Relieved though she really was that Jean-Paul was not irritated at her presumption in specifying, and not only seemed to think that he happily could provide her with an appropriate Single Malt, but would also have one for his own self, Rahne still found herself hesitating about the last thing she needed to ask about procuring the drink. He had looked unco disapproving when she’d explained that she’d come in search of Single Malt, though admittedly he’d brightened up when she explained her choices. Maybe he’d been worried about the Speyside possibility too?

But the vision of her mother drinkless and eyeing something horribly sticky had her rallying. She asked, a wee bit nervously, whether he might somehow be able to manage a whole bottle. "Not only is it possible...." He leaned forward just slightly and lowered his voice as if telling a secret. "But it's guaranteed. Two bottles, even.

He was not so very close, after all, so Rahne didn’t feel much more than usually uncomfortable when he leaned in, and there was nothing to fight against the happy smile that his promise had started. Two bottles? She would never have dared so much... clearly, even if he was a Papist and maybe also a Seelie, Jean-Paul was a very kind, angelic person. "But let me ask you one question first, if you don't mind?" He paused for it, and Rahne nodded - for two bottles of Scotch, she’d do her very best to answer any questions he had. Then, "Apart from the lack of Single Malt, how's the other party?"

Rahne frowned, chewing on her lip a little again as she tried to decide how to answer the question. She’d not very much in the way of experience of such parties, after all, so she couldn’t rightly compare it with previous experience. There was this party that they were at now, but she did somehow feel that it would be unco improper to be judging on this party, since it did apparently have Scotch to give her. So... she’d simply have to describe Jean’s party as best she could.

With her head cocked back up at him and tilted to one side a little, she took a deep breath and began, “Well there are a lot of sticky drinks. And jello shots.... and when I left, they were starting up something called body shots, though I dinna rightly know what those are.” She raised her eyebrows at him in question, in case he should happen to know. It seemed likely that he would, as so many of the other party seemed to understand what Rachel had meant, although perhaps it was a special Bachelorette thing, for women only?

Speaking of which... “And Lorna and Jean were telling some stories about the men in X-men Team... that I... er... probably wouldna do fair justice to, if I repeated them,” she said honestly, blushing a little. The two women had been... rather specific, about certain matters. Dancing on tables with her mother and Excalibur was one thing, but Rahne wasn’t quite sure she was up to hearing too much more about things that were so, well, sinful. Even if they were apparently a good deal of fun, according to the others.

Changing the subject before the Blush tied up her tongue any further, Rahne cast about for any other notable aspect of the Bachelorette party, as opposed to other ones that she’d been to, in her limited experience. “And there are lot of men walking around serving drinks without many clothes on. Er, the men, I mean. Some of the drinks have umbrellas, which seems like a wee bit much clothing for a drink, don’t you think?” She paused, searching Jean-Paul’s face to see whether he’d agree... he had seemed to have very right taste in Scotch, so surely he’d see it the same way, about the umbrellas?
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With her head cocked back up at him and tilted to one side a little, she took a deep breath and began, “Well there are a lot of sticky drinks. And jello shots.... and when I left, they were starting up something called body shots, though I dinna rightly know what those are.” She raised her eyebrows at him...

He made what must have been a sympathetic face -- or so he thought. His nose wrinkled, and he bit at his bottom lip slightly. Sticky drinks -- that had taken a moment to decipher, but horrible visions of Cosmopolitans danced in his mind. This was not improved when Jello shots were mentioned -- the stickiest of them all. And body shots --

Well. Those had their uses. But he wasn't seeing the point at this precise moment, no. Admittedly, licking salt off Rogue -- or her gloves, as it were -- wouldn't be nearly as difficult as the last ten minutes of his life had been. He hadn't even minded kissing her, so much; a price he might've easily paid again had this girl not saved him. And yet...

“And Lorna and Jean were telling some stories about the men in X-men Team... that I... er... probably wouldna do fair justice to, if I repeated them.”

There were many, many things that Jean-Paul did not need to know about the X-Men. And that he would've been terribly amused to hear at the same time. He was certain these stories must be among them.

And God, look at her blushing. This Rahne seemed very young to him -- and yet, she must not be, if she had been invited to the party. Still, he couldn't help thinking her a very sweet little creature.

His weakness for sweet little creatures was perhaps public knowledge these days. But no, he wouldn't think of that. Not tonight. Perhaps not for some months, even. That would be for the best.

“And there are lot of men walking around serving drinks without many clothes on. Er, the men, I mean. Some of the drinks have umbrellas, which seems like a wee bit much clothing for a drink, don’t you think?” She paused, searching Jean-Paul’s face...

"Yes, any drink with so much clothing is hiding something, and I want no part of it." He smiled -- perhaps it was a bit of a smirk, but he had got a feeling for her. How long it had taken him to do so -- well, that didn't bear thinking about. More Scotch. That was the thing. "But I think I could endure the men. Somehow."

"I don't suppose you'd take me there if I managed... three bottles? I can't imagine all the attendants want sticky, overdressed drinks, after all."

Sticky, underdressed men, on the other hand --

Rogue did not and would never consider him her Gay Accessory Friend, and therefore certainly none of the others did. There was no point making himself miserable with Jersey Strippers out of pride, then, was there? No, he'd even manage a bottle of good bourbon as a show of good faith for her, just in case she decided to be difficult.

Yes, he could very easily slip out, ferrying liquor for the bachelorette party. Why not? And after all -- "I was invited," he said, as an afterthought. "I promise."
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"Yes, any drink with so much clothing is hiding something, and I want no part of it." He smiled -- perhaps it was a bit of a smirk, "But I think I could endure the men. Somehow."

Rahne wasn’t really quite sure about everything he’d just said, but it sounded lousome enough, so she nodded. His words sounded like he was complaining about the men, but then his tone did not. It was all more than a wee bit confusing. He did sound very sure about the drinks, at least, which spoke to a lot of braw things about him - and if he had saw things right about alcohol, he probably had good judgement about the rest, nay? Because the only other person she’d met tonight who did seem to understand about the drinks was her mother, and she had the best judgement of all (except for a tendency to be more than a wee bit lax where Rahne herself was concerned).

"I don't suppose you'd take me there if I managed... three bottles? I can't imagine all the attendants want sticky, overdressed drinks, after all."

Really? Her mouth fell open, and she stared at the seelie man. Which had rather more to do with the unforseen manna from heaven of three bottles than any particular qualms Rahne would have had about taking Jean-Paul to the other party - after all, he’d been unco nice to her when she’d turned up at this one, so it seemed like the least of things for her to be able to repay him with something as simple as that. Hopefully he wouldn’t see it that way, because it would be gey improper to give the impression of being ungrateful to this very kind, angelic man.

"I was invited," he said, as an afterthought. "I promise."

Catching up control of her face again, Rahne cocked her eyebrows at him. “Oh! Well, I dinna see as you need me then, though I suppose I do ken the way...” It seemed such a wee small thing, to repay him for the bottles, but if he really did want her to show him the way, she could do it. But perhaps she could make him feel a little better too, to make up something more of her debt - and to ease his mind about the picture she’d painted of the party, which maybe didn’t seem so bonnie.

“I wouldna worry about the men,” she told him matter-of-factly. “They’re a wee bit pretty, but not so pretty as you I think.”
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Northstar
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His offer to up the bounty was met by a surprisingly charming goldfish impression. But when he reassured her that he had been invited to the party, she seemed to regain the use of all muscles in her face -- in particular those operating her ginger eyebrows.

“Oh! Well, I dinna see as you need me then, though I suppose I do ken the way...”

"Mm, yes, that's just the thing." He'd barely set foot in the place, but it was a labyrinth of absurdity as far as he was concerned, even after a quick runthrough this afternoon. He halfway expected to walk through a doorway and be dropped into the mythical Danger Room.

“I wouldna worry about the men,” she told him matter-of-factly. “They’re a wee bit pretty, but not so pretty as you I think.”

"Thank you for saying so." Jean-Paul laughed -- a silent, short thing, but as genuine as he'd had in days. Well, he had a new favorite X-Man, it seemed. "I'm relieved to hear it; that's just how I like them."

He glanced around, suddenly wary that someone would chase the girl off or sic another stripper on him. When it was clear everyone else's attention was on some no doubt appalling occurrence in the groom-to-be's general area, Jean-Paul said, "I'll meet you just in the hall in a few seconds."

Yes, this was a good plan. He'd explain his disappearance to Logan, Hank -- and on the odd chance anyone else might actually notice, all comers -- tomorrow.

One last smile, the charming one he usually saved for signing autographs, and Jean-Paul hurtled into motion. He whipped around several party-goers, blowing back a random Jersey Shore Inmate's hair in the process, and snapped to a stop behind the bar. He scanned the selection briefly, not bothering to check over his shoulder and see if McCoy -- who'd had a great deal to do with his current near-drunkenness, in fact, bless the man -- would object. Of course he wouldn't. Hank McCoy was lovely. And had Scotch.

Oh yes, so very, very much Scotch, and rather the full gamut in terms of an Islay selection. He'd have to remember to compliment him on it. Someday. He found both an open Ardbeg and a Talisker still in the box. Then he plucked the bottle of Laphroiag from which he'd already dipped several times and a bottle of some overpriced Kentucky Swill or another, and arranged everything in his arms like a proper drunk.

That should do.

He flashed into the wide, open hallway, stopped just near the door when he saw the coast was still clear, and leaned back against the wall, one foot crossed over the other, hugging his still-sloshing whisky and awaiting the girl who would lead him to the promised land. The girl with the excellent taste.

In both Scotch and men, apparently.

(Reenie, if she would've said something to keep him from taking off right there and then like the big speedster jerk he is, totally poke me and I'll fix it.)
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Wolfsbane
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"Thank you for saying so." Jean-Paul laughed -- a silent, short thing, but as genuine as he'd had in days. "I'm relieved to hear it; that's just how I like them."

Rahne drew her brows down a little, wrinkling her nose to try to figure through that. Jean-Paul must like an awful lot of men, then. Hadn’t that been a rather odd thing to say? Or...

...well, in any case, her partner in something that might not have been crime, but still felt sinful in the good sort of way that certain sinful things always did seem to tempt a soul with, was looking about him furtively, as though he was casing the room. "I'll meet you just in the hall in a few seconds," he said, and then he disappeared, and just like the Cheshire Cat, left only the memory of a dazzling sort of a smile in his wake.

Rahne waited a moment, not quite sure what she was supposed to be doing, despite what had been perfectly clear instructions. She had an uncomfortable sort of feeling she’d missed a few things along the way, since arriving at this men’s party, but whatever they were, she’d missed them well and proper, because couldn’t figure out what they might be. But she had come for Scotch, and Jean-Paul had promised to provide Scotch, in return for being led to the other party. So... that seemed simple enough, even for a teuchter lass.

With that resolution in mind, she began to edge her way back out of the party - a more difficult thing than getting into it, it appeared, as she had to flatten herself against the wall at least twice to avoid getting into people’s lines of sight. Explaining to Sammy what she was doing here at this party... och, nay. It wouldn’t be any sort of good conversation at all, telling him about the single malt, when he did still see her as a wee tiny bairn. He’d only get confused, or it would get all fankled.

Either way, by the time she finally slipped out the door, Jean-Paul was outside and waiting for her, arms filled with the promised bottles. Rahne’s eyes lit up at the sight of them, and she held her hands out, offering to help with the load, “I can give you a hand with that,” she told him, and pointed down the hallway. “It’s just this way...”

[And feel free to take them into a time-jump arriving at the other party, unless there's anything more than they need to say here? I'm easy! But you know that.]
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Rogue
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[after a suitable time jump, I think]

Nursing her glass of decent Kentucky Bourbon that she'd near 'bout had to mortgage half her soul to get hold of, Rogue leaned back in her chair, just enjoying the show going on around her. Lord, but she hadn't seen a party like this in...well, y'know, she wasn't sure she'd ever seen a party quite like this. Not here, no way.

And what a show it was turning out to be.

Made her wonder what the heck Emma Frost'd put in them jello shots everybody was throwing back like so much mineral water. Had to be something danged potent, even if about one or two had been about all she could stand before she'd gone looking for something less sugary and less likely to help her cut loose just a little more'n was good for her or anybody else in her general vicinity. 'Cause that sure did seem to be the general effect they were having and there was likely to be enough people passing out all on their own without her giving her general help to the cause.

Not that she hadn't joined in, 'cause she liked having fun much as any other gal here. Dancing wasn't no problem, even on the tables (and she still wondered that the danged table hadn't give out under that one), having a few drinks, being generally loud, mebbe even a little harmless flirting with one're two of the male dancers and waiters weaving in and outta the crowd of exotic women in nothing but tight black pants, bowties and tanned skin that went on forever, well, that was all in good fun and part of the experience. But when they'd started doing rounds of body shots, the southern girl decided it was time to bow out. And honest to god, it'd been as much, or mebbe more, fun watching than it would've ever been joining in.

After a few rounds, inhibitions started falling off like cheap earrings, and she'd just about spit her bourbon all over Ali, who'd come to keep her company for a little while, when Jean and Lorna put on their little floor show. Not to mention Kitty and Rachel taking their turn. Gals sure had grown up a whole lot since last time she'd seen her and looked to be grabbing onto the fun tonight with both hands.

Couldn't say she blamed 'em, and she and Dazzler'd had a good laugh or ten, before Ali'd gone up to give Lila a rest. Almost a surprise that gal wasn't three sheets to the wind like everybody else, but then never did quite know what to expect from her. Though, come to think of it, Rogue wasn't sure how she'd know drunk of her ass from the way Ali normally acted now way.

Either way, Dazzler was up on stage now in a swirl of popping and strobing colors, belting out some song about a Bad Romance the green eyed woman was pretty sure she'd heard on the radio a time or two, Jen Walters was over on her other side with one've those awful easy on the eyes waiters cornered, there was a whole sea of designer clothes and rainbow colored hair out on the dance floor, and she was just waiting to see what they'd come up with next.

Too bad, she mused taking another sip of her bourbon and contemplating hitting the dance floor again, JP'd decided to go on over to the other party. He'd have likely enjoyed all this. But she hoped he was having just as good'a time on the other side of the house.

Still wasn't sure how the hell nobody'd managed to talk Logan into giving the bachelor party, but she reckoned he wouldn't have no problem doing it up right. By her reckoning, there was gonna be a lotta sick, hungover wedding guests tomorrow, but they were sure getting Emma's moneys worth tonight.
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Northstar
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The girl's bright eyes grew brighter still when she saw the bottles in his arms, and Jean-Paul felt a certain swell of satisfaction. He handed off the bottles he'd taken at her specific request, keeping the Laphroaig and Kentucky Swill for himself. She navigated the halls with practiced ease, on which Jean-Paul commented appreciatively, still finding the place a bit baffling, himself. He didn't mind admitting it to his new favorite X-Man, anyhow.

Before very long, the thumping of loud music and the smell of fruity alcoholic drinks permeated the corridor, and Jean-Paul shot his guide a wicked grin. "Ah, yes, this must be the place."

They made their way to the doorway and Jean-Paul poked his head in first. His eyebrows rose instantly, and the wicked grin remained firmly fixed.

He recognized the woman on stage as Dazzler, of course -- who didn't recognize her, these days? There was a sparkly, multicolored maul on the dancefloor, surprisingly appealing in its actual collective sense of rhythm. Colors and lights swirled and flashed, reminding one forcibly of those Japanese cartoons that were so detrimental to the brain function of unwitting children.

A woman he didn't quite recognize, but knew he ought to, was licking something off another woman's neck, a shot in one hand, a lemon wedge in the other. And then there was the small legion of rather decent-looking men who, as promised, wore nothing but painfully tight black pants that left nothing to the imagination.

In some ways, not particularly his kind of party. In others... well, closer, anyhow. Damn near enough.

"My god," he said to his red-headed savior. "It looks like pride week in here."

It said a great deal about the company present that it took him several moments, but he spotted Rogue sitting a little bit off to the side, sipping something remarkably decent-looking (but probably bourbon, god help them all.) He caught her gaze, then smirked and nodded to Rahne in explanation. The bottles, of course, would speak for themselves.
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Wolfsbane
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"Ah, yes, this must be the place," her new extremely bonnie fellow traveler remarked, as they neared the room. Rahne nodded, but personally, the Scots girl wondered how he could possibly have missed the sounds and the smells - och, the smells, they made her wish to be able to paw at her nose from their stickiness - from at least a hallway or two before. But then it was unco hard to remember when other people could or couldn’t sense things some times.

They reached the door, and as Jean-Paul looked in, Rahne managed to glance underneath his shoulder to see what had happened since she’d left.

It looked... well, mostly the same, although Dazzler was now singing instead of Lila, which was a great improvement, so far as Rahne could see. Dazzler was unco pretty, and Lila... well, Lila was no great person at all. She’d never understand what Sammy could find to like about that lass, even being as kind as he was, and if it was a sin to dislike people for nay reason you could speak to with reasoned words? Aye, well, perhaps she could manage one more sin, on top of her others, without fashing herself too much.

"My god," he said to his red-headed savior. "It looks like pride week in here."

Pride Week... it sounded like it ought to have been familiar, but Rahne had to wrinkle her nose again for a wee moment before she could place the term. Of course, all the parades and parties in the city that Xi’an had insisted they ought to all go to once a year. Berto had tried to throw one of his Berto fits about wrongness or sin or something until Dani had stood on his foot, and then sulked for days afterward because men had tried to kiss him.

Actually, that wasn’t right, he’d sulked because not enough men had tried to kiss him. Which explained most of what needed explaining about the great diffie eejit, bless his soul.

Looking back into the room once more, with those memories in mind, Rahne had to admit, her new companion had a point. “Oh aye, it really does!” she said, then trailed off when she saw the two figures in the middle of the room. That was... aye, that was Rachel, and she was licking Kitty. As Marvel Girl straightened up and drank from a bottle of tequila, Rahne shot a querying look back to the Seelie man she’d brought. “Is that a body shot? Is it no quite a waste of alcohol?”

Then Jean-Paul seemed to be making eye contact with someone in the room - Rogue. As it seemed as though he knew the Southern woman already, and she was far enough off from the center of the room to be away from the presses of woman and somewhat-pretty unco unclothed men gathering around the dance floor, it was not hard for them to get over to her.

“I went on a Mission from Moira, to find these,” Rahne explained over the music, lifting up the two single malts Jean-Paul had procured for her for emphasis. “And then I also did find Jean-Paul, who said that he was invited here.” Aye, and perhaps now they would want to catch up together, and she should probably not be letting Moira survive on the sticky drinks for any longer. “Do you ken where my mother got to, Rogue?” she asked? It was awfully hard to spot anyone in this press.

Well... except Kitty and Rachel, that was.
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