It had been a couple of days since the events involving the young firestarter – a.k.a. the subtly-named Firefist – a.k.a. reformed arsonist of the future – a.k.a. Russell – and he had been taken in by the organisation that was behind Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters. Wade was sure that the X-men would make a good hero out of his tubbiness. They were good people. Better people than he was, anyway. Regardless, here they were, with whatever was left of that fateful operation as the X Force. He'd miss them and the good times he had had together—

"Uh Wade, you know you're speaking aloud, right?" He looked up at the mess that was his best friend, Weasel, who owned the bar they were all in.

"Am I doing that thing again? Dammit, I knew I should have skipped the in-flight movies in the X-plane on the way back. Bully for the sultry sounds of Vincent Price."

Weasel laughed nervously as he did sometimes, though today he had picked up the bottle that Wade had set on the counter, wiped the little ring of condensation left by the glass surface, before doing it again not five seconds later.

For a moment, he thought that Weasel was rendered so nervous by the appearance of Cable, the grizzled beast of a man sitting two stools away, both eyes (good and evil-glowy ones) on the beer bottle in front of him. Ol' Gravelly over there was just so prickly (though his man-stubble was quite macho), though Wade was sure that he was getting through that masculine, Old (Salty) Spice-exterior, it wouldn't be long now before they were even better friends. Everyone just needed some… extra motivation.

As expected, no one in the bar seemed to be willing to edge closer to the mysterious man with the giant gun and "utility bag", his macho aura of silent brooding had effectively repelled all advances, including anyone looking for a refill of their drinks. The hunk of dangerous, gunpowder-loaded beefcake had effectively cleared out Weasel's clientele for the evening. Domino was determined to get the jukebox up and running again, so she did nothing for the fastly-disappearing thugs who were suddenly all eager to leave them to it.

"Got any ideas to help grease down the machine? We need a way lighten Robocop up," he said, nodding at the bartender, barely noticing that Weasel wasn't quite listening. A very strange, high-pitched whistling seemed to emit from the man's open mouth. Wade looked up at his feverish friend, who always looked a bit peaky from his time spent indoors and saw him sneaking glances at a lovely specimen of a young woman. Now Wade knew that TJ definitely liked his blondes – especially those in the getup of a very demure librarian, tight turtleneck, a slightly-messy bun, dressed in varying shades of gray.

Heh. 'Pumpkin Butter' would make a good safe word. Even goes with the season. Someone should write that fan-fiction. Maybe I should. Hire Ryan Reynolds as Mr Butter himself.

He paused, giving this woman more than the usual once-over. She seemed to be busy with something, writing something and checking her phone every now and then, completely oblivious to the unnervingly quiet bar on biker night. His now-sweaty friend had just given him an idea.

"Hey stud, why don't you go over there and introduce yourself? Go on, git," Wade smirked, making a small shooing motion with two fingers, managing to still make it a very dirty gesture. The grimace on Weasel's face only grew uglier (if such a thing was possible).

"Na—nah man," the mutter was breathy, and its owner seemed to shudder. "Women… women don't find me attractive. Especially not the sobe – not – not any sort."

Momentarily torn between giving the sad sack a pep talk or to report for wingman duty, Wade felt uncomfortable. He knew it was wrong to laugh, or make it a terrible, awful joke at Weasel's expense – yet he felt this insane need bubble up through his lungs—but before he could say anything, the jukebox started up with progressive pop-rock synths, jolting them all, even the stoic statue of the Winter Soldier to his left.

Cher's If I Could Turn Back Time poured out of the speakers, pricking something at the back of his mind. Never mind that for now, Cher is more important, he told himself as Domino sauntered over, perching herself on the seat, humming along to the glorious vocals, even the electric Starship pop-rock wails of the guitars.

"Got it to work," she grinned, satisfied with herself. Wade was still not-convinced that her 'good luck' was just that, but at that point, he didn't really care to argue about it anymore.

If I could turn back time, if I could find a way, Wade mouthed along with Cher, tapping the countertop, barely conscious that his friend was being waved over, a hapless awkward moth to the young, sensual flame-haired woman. Wade wondered if he even should mention that Weasel was walking a little funny, and even his pants seemed a little darker and a little fulle– ew – taking it back, retching, gagging QUICK BURN IT OUT, but it was too late. Now, the image was forever seared into his frontal lobe. Wade made a mental note to bleach it the next time he tried a lobotomy – which was probably in thirty minutes. Maybe less.

It didn't take long before even she swept out the door, slipping on a coat that brushed up against Himalayanface's fanny pack, deepening the scowl on his craggy brow. The man was sure possessive over his man purse, one hand now cradling it protectively against further molestation. He seemed to be checking that these pockets hadn't been violated, rummaging through each compartment like an overgrown Yogi in the woods.

Four glasses now lined the counter, one for each person left in the bar. They were filled with the same whiskey the librarian had been nursing all afternoon. "Sh—she bought us all drinks. Even me. God, I feel like such an idiot – now I'll never see her again."

I didn't want to see you go, know I made you cry, but baby-

The sudden flurry of movement from the Millionfrowns man drew all their (with the exception of a distraught Weasel) attention, and just like in none of the noir-est of movies, Cable was leaving without even touching his free whiskey, and in his hand was a scrap of paper that looked like a page from the little book Weasel's crush had been writing in.

"Hey, finish the drink the gorgeous lady bought you," muttered Weasel as he eyed the statuesque figure.

"I only drink beer." Came the gruff reply.

"It's been paid for, might as well?" But Domino's advice appeared to have fallen on deaf processors as Inspector Gadget himself started to leave.

"She was a regular Egghead, eh, Weasel? Wrote a lot of symbols and math while she's here. OR they could be witchcraft. Must be witchcraft. Freak-ay shit," Wade said, watching both men carefully.

"Oh yeah, I saw her. She had a nice ensemble going on, looked a bit bookish," grinned Domino, who was helping herself to Cable's ignored drink. Stonejaw himself was already half-out the bar.

A long silence settled over the three of them left behind.

"Well, he's a cheap lay."

"Feels like an show on TLC. We could call it 'Cockblocked by the Terminator'."

"—named Sir Gruffalot."

"Thanks guys, I really appreciate your attempts at cheering me up, but you're not helping."