Scott and Ororo, Wednesday night

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As they agreed, Scott and Ororo lock themselves in his suite for a night of bad movies. Very, very bad movies. The drinking games are probably inevitable. Ororo makes a somewhat bothersome discovery, and later, has another close encounter with Scott's cat.


"It has dragons," Scott said helpfully as he inserted the 'Reign of Fire' DVD into the player. "In postapocalyptic England. With psychotic American militia commanders and scruffy noble Brits."

"Is it the one with the man flying through the air towards a dragon with an axe in his hands?" 'Ro asked, settling on the couch and situating the bowl of popcorn next to him.

"You remember the commercial, huh?" Scott grinned at her as he came over to sit back down. "And it's the damnedest thing, but I swear one of the secondary actors could be Nate's twin brother. Awful hair, though."

"Oh, good. Then this promises to be even more entertaining."

"He even dies being absurdly noble." Scott settled in beside her, grabbing a handful of popcorn. "It's downright uncanny."

Ororo giggled as the credits began to roll. "Right, let me add that to the 'list of things Nate is not allowed to do'... number one, chase windmills, number two, fight dragons. Check."

--

"Is that... yes, I think it is... drink!" Ororo declared as the Denver Library came on the screen of Scott's TV. They had been watching Battlefield Earth for some time, and had both agreed that the only way to make the film even vaguely tolerable was to play a drinking game while watching. She almost wanted to know where all these bad movies had come from, but another part of her thought it might be better not to know.

Scott tossed back another shot of tequila, grimacing. "This may not," he said, wheezing a little, "have been such a good choice of movies for a drinking game."

"Just wait until the laser fight," the white-haired woman said with a grin, leaning forward to refill his glass. "And you are the one with the John Travolta fetish, so you cannot blame me for it..."

"Fetish? You've got to be kidding me. I have no such thing." Scott flopped back into the couch. "His hair. Is unbelievable."

"Perhaps you should get dreads like his," 'Ro said, gesturing to the screen.

Scott rolled his eyes at her. "Oh, yes. That would attract the women in hordes, wouldn't it?"

Wrinkling her nose, Ororo flapped a hand at him, elbowing the pillow behind her into submission. "Hordes of women seem like a frightening prospect, if you ask me. Especially ones attracted to skinny white men with dreads..."

"Are you calling me skinny, Munroe?" Scott scoffed at her. "I am not skinny," he grumbled.

"No? Well, slim, then," Ororo amended. "And white, you cannot contest that. So perhaps the dreads are not for you. Although I do remember you looked quite... something when you did your hair like his in Saturday Night Fever."

Scott sputtered. "... I never. That is some sort of hallucination you had, or something..."

"Even though I am not sure that my subconscious could come up with anything more damaging than that on its own, I still think it did happen," she said, grinning. "As well as some ill-fated dance moves."

Scott looked woefully at her, then glanced at the screen. "There we go. Yet another mention of a 'man-animal'. Bottoms up!"

"I wonder if the Psychlos ever met Logan," 'Ro mused, moments before tipping her glass up dutifully. Orders were orders, after all.

---

Scott pushed himself up from the couch, swaying a little as he went over to the television. "I need to pick the next movie," he said, enunciating very carefully. "I think it should be a surprise. No peeking!"

Ororo groaned and rolled her eyes. "If that is the case, I think I shall visit the little girl's room... though why you have one of those in your suite is a question for another time." She smirked and slid her legs off the sofa, heading through the bedroom to the bathroom, flicking on lights as she went.

Ororo barely spared herself a glance in the mirror as she washed her hands, her gaze instead falling to the items on Scott's countertop. There were the usual toiletries - toothpaste, mouthwash, shaving cream - as well as something a little more out of place. She frowned, picking up the bottle of painkillers to peer at the label more closely. Her frown deepened as she realized that by weight it seemed to be only half-full, and the label revealed a prescription that she couldn't recall Amelia ever using before. It was much stronger than anything she had ever seen in the infirmary, actually.

Ororo stood with the bottle in hand for a minute before putting it back down where she had found it. It wasn't her place to admonish him for such things, as he was a responsible adult and had been through more trauma in the past six months than many people faced in a lifetime. Still, she thought she might pay Amelia a visit sometime soon, just to check. It couldn't hurt.

"Well," she announced when she emerged into the living area once again, "what did you pick? I hope it is suitably horrendous."

Scott beamed at her. The expression made him look about five years younger, smoothing all the lines of pain and tension that had etched themselves into his face over the last several months. "Putrid," he said cheerfully. "'The Core'. Where the core of the earth stops spinning and they have to drill down to restart it with nuclear bombs. And Hilary Swank is slumming."

"Ah yes, because nuclear bombs solve everything," 'Ro said with a snort, sprawling once again across the sofa. "This movie wasn't written by a Chechen by any chance, was it?"

"Shhh. No business tonight!"

---

The DVD had long since ended, the player's 'standby' screensaver bouncing idly back and forth across the TV screen. The two figures out the couch were entirely dead to the world, one sprawled across the other. It was a very comfortable-looking scene, really.

Then the small black and white cat who was standing on the back of the couch - looking at this lovely scene with a jaundiced eye - leapt from there onto Ororo's head with a yowl.

"Euaugh!"

Ororo's arms flailed about her head as she desperately tried to bat away the... thing that had attacked her. The atmosphere in the room grew charged as she opened her eyes, peering through the darkness for the fiend.

Scott jolted awake, wincing as stiff muscles protested. "Ororo, what the hell-" Something bounded across the coffee table and skidded into the bedroom, and he swore. "Des!"

"I am going to throw that cat in the lake!" 'Ro declared, struggling to sit upright. "Where is she?"

There was a planitive mew from the bedroom, the sound of a cat who knew she had transgressed and was perfectly ready to pull the pitiful act if it saved her hide. Scott sank back against the couch, trying not to snicker. "Um. Did she draw blood?"

Ororo's hand found her forehead and then drew away, and she shook her head, still scowling. "No. But that does not excuse her behavior! I was having a good dream, and she woke me up."

Scott rubbed his eyes, blinking at the DVD player. "Huh. It's three in the morning," he pointed out. "I think we slept through the end of 'Volcano'. Damn."

"I am sure it had a happy ending," 'Ro grumbled. Shifting, she pulled a throw pillow from behind her, curling up once again in the crook of the couch. "They always do."

"Yeah, funny thing about disaster flicks. They're not at all like life." He shifted around so that he was leaning into the other end of the couch. "'Ro?" he asked after a minute. "We had fun tonight, right?

"I did... I cannot speak for you. I should hope so, at least."

"I had fun," he said more softly, shifting into what passed for a more comfortable position. "I have lousy taste in movies, though."

"Yes... perhaps you should let me pick, next time." 'Ro lifted her legs as he moved, then deposited them across his lap. "If I sleep here tonight, will your cat try to kill me again?"

"I'll speak very sharply to her if she comes in this direction again." Honestly, he was definitely feeling the effects of the tequila and suspected very strongly that as soon as he closed his eyes he'd be out again. But surely Des wouldn't try that again. "And I'll shut her in the bathroom if she does."

"Good," she murmured, yawning. "Because I do not think I want to trek to my room in the darkness. Who knows what else may be lurking out there..."

"Monsters," Scott murmured, patting her knee. "Of all shapes and sizes." That sounded entirely too serious. He needed to go to sleep.

"Oh my." Another yawn, and Ororo's head dipped to rest against the cushion of the couch. "Too bad we do not have a nuclear bomb... that would solve all our problems."

"Tequila makes you... like weapons of mad destruction. It's bad. No more for you."

"Blame Hilary Swank. It is all her fault."