Mystique and her just stood there, looking at each other, waiting for the other one to show a weak spot. Mystique was always calm doing these moments. Her body moved like they weren't about to go at each other's throats, easy, walking gracefully like she'd been a dancer or a gymnast.

"How old are you?" Rogue asked her.

"Older than most." Mystique grinned. "Perceptive."

"Am I? Maybe you're just showing wrinkles."

Mystique laughed like crickets on a cold night. "I promise that when you get wrinkles," she started. Rogue threw a punch, which Mystique caught, bare-handed. The drain only lasted a second before she pulled at Rogue's arm to toss her aside. "I will still be perfectly preserved."

But the damage had been done. When Mystique, Rogue's own body was morphing. She flew into Mystique's face as a bat, which was promptly swatted away.

Rogue hit the floor with thwap, and morphed back into her own body, hurting everywhere.

"Really?"

"It was all I could think of." Rogue complained from the floor. "I'll learn to use your power eventually."

"I'm not sure you think creatively enough for it." Mystique retorted. "It's a shame you can't absorb Pyro's power. You could do some damage with something a little more straight-forward."

Rogue took the long grueling moments to lift herself back onto her feet. "We're working on it."

Mystique touched her face, letting her take more. "Go to him as me."

"I'm pretty sure that'll just scare the shit out of him."

"One never knows what's underneath a power. Go see if it works."

"I'm not going to do that." Rogue's reply was matter-of-fact.

Mystique measured her, wondering if she'd ever be obedient. "Then you'll come with me on a recon mission." Mystique was matter-of-fact too. "Wear something sexy. We're hoping to avoid using force."

Rogue doubted she owned anything exactly sexy. Her wardrobe was composed specifically to keep others at bay. Mystique would just have to deal with it.

The target was an older man, maybe 55, short and thin, skin clinging to his bones and clothes tenting at the edges. Mystique wanted to go right to him, but Rogue insisted on laughed with the corners of his mouth downturned. He held his glass gingerly. His neck bent as he ducked over wings, chips and salsa, french fries. His eyes were open, very, like he was expecting a rush of meaning to come at him at any moment.

Most importantly, he was quiet. He talked a little to the bartender, asking about the menu or the tv, but ignored everyone else.

A beautiful and available woman opens doors, but so does a damsel.

Rogue shuffled in the barstool next to him, making shy, flitting eye contact. She cleared her throat and darted her eyes to the bartender. "Um, can I just get a coke?"

She could feel the cold weight of his eyes on her, and she fitted her fingers to push the hair behind her ears like a nervous tick, instinctively.

The bartender dropped a napkin on the bar and placed the glass down. The condensation hit her nerves like beads of sweat. Bait. "Oh, I-" she slid off the barstool and turned out the pockets of her jeans. "I- I'm so sorry."

"I've got it." The man's voice was thick with drink and deeper than his body would suggest.

She turned to him with her mouth hanging open. "Oh," she let the word hang, breathy, "thanks."

"Not a problem, miss." He was polite, a real gentleman. Made her feel kind of bad.

She sat bad down next to him, taking the glass to her lips for a small sip. "What's your name?" she asked, genuinely curious.

"Michtum." he said after a pause.

"What do you do, Mitchum?"

He measured her again, suspicious and lecherous at the same time. "How old are you?"

"Legal." she said, pretending the question was offensive for an entirely different reason than it was. "Just looking for some company, a little conversation."

"Well, I'm afraid you won't find anything entertaining about my work. I mostly run numbers."

"What does that mean?"

"I'm a statistician. I help brilliant minds work smarter."

"Statistician." she let the word sit. "Like, research?"

"That's right."

"Anything interesting?"

"Not me."

"I can't believe that." Her tone may have come a little heavy handed, because he sucked on his lips in response.

"Well, they're working on the mutie cure in my department, but they're keeping it locked up tight, tighten than usual. Small team, less consulting."

"Cure?" Her voice was too sharp. "You mean the mutant treatment."

His eyes dozed away, heavy with all the alcohol he'd already consumed. "Hmph, maybe as a start, but with all the attacks, they're looking into something permanent. Though, if you ask me, nothing more permanent than just putting them down." His gaze sat on her steadily, and she tried to keep her expression neutral. She wasn't sure how well she'd done, when he backslid. "You didn't hear it from me." He turned away from her then, eye glued to the game on the tv.

Rogue had wondered at first how Mystique had found the man, but now she understood. Loose lips.

"Thanks for the drink, mister."

He grunted in reply, his attention barely flickering back to her. She watched as he slumped onto the bar for support, and loosened her gloves under the table.

Touching his arm, skin-on-skin, she repeated herself for the sake of the patrons. "Thanks." And when he slumped harder, groaning, she played it up. "Are you okay?" She tightened her grip as if to steady him. The grey of his veins were dulled in the shadows. His memories came at her hard, and his curses were incoherent as the pain of the drain mixed with his drunkenness.

She turned, hand slipping off the man's skin, eyes catching the bartender. "He doesn't look so good. Maybe call him a cab?" He ton was all concern and innocence. The bartender merely nodded back to her.

She made her way to Mystique. "I got a location."

The other woman gave a malicious grin. "Good work."

Rogue sat in her new recruit bunk, a single. She learned later that this is not standard behavior.

A single for the girl with poison skin.

A single for the object of seduction. How many times had she been alone with Pyro here? Not many, but the appearances had been… significant.

Mystique had put in the request for her to be moved into the wing for permanent members. In her time here, she'd seen plenty of new recruits disappear, but none move up.

Pyro carried her duffel bag for her, mumbling about her room being too far down the hall and wishing he could be closer to her.

The room was bare. She'd need to buy sheets, curtains for the windows, a desk… "The Brotherhood's got a storage full of stuff people have left behind over the years. You can start there."

She smiled at him. "What if I want to buy something nice?" Her hips swayed a little, tempting.

"Buy?" he smirked at her. "You've got money?"

"A little."

"Well, put it away." She got close to him, chest to chest, and he dragged her closer still by her hips. "We don't buy here. We take."

She stretched herself up, balancing on her toes and against him, brushing her nose against his. It felt good to think about putting down roots. "Oh, is that how you got all that ratty old shit in your room? You hold up a homeless shelter?"

He laughed. "I didn't want anything new. You're the prissy one."

"Prissy?" Her smile grew wider. "I dare you to get closer and say that to me again."

He kissed her, dipping his head down to catch her lips. "I can think of better things to call you."

She loved this side of him. He could be so very sweet. "Like what?" she asked him against his lips.

"Dear?" He suggested, placing a little kiss on her lips. "Sweetheart?" He left a trail along her jawline.

"Darling?" she suggested, giggling.

He pulled away to look into her eyes. "Darling, then."