She gives him a long look, then smacks his shoulder. Not hard, but hard enough. “Fuck you, you had me going,” she said, shaking her head. “And you should most definitely not have kids. Not if you think goddamn boxes are the way to go,” she quipped. “Don’t think I trust you with a pigeon, let alone offspring.” The awkward moment has passed, she can almost pretend she didn’t nearly meltdown in the alleyway.
Inside, with whiskey down her throat, she feels even more solid. It sits heavily in her freshly-empty stomach, but that works for her. Anchors her to the earth. So does hitting assholes who deserve it. She smirks at him. “Easy,” she said simply, as the man approached them.
Warren offers a much nicer greeting than she would’ve. Not that it’s received anymore warmly. She leans back, putting her head between Warren and the, admittedly, huge stranger. “Fuck off, Sasquatch. Maybe after we’ve had our drink,” she says pointedly.
The man’s attention turns to her. “Ain’t talkin’ to you, sweetheart. Unless you’re with this mutie freakhole,” he grumbles, reaching out a hand to shove Warren back. She reaches up, grabs his wrist. Squeezes hard.
“Firstly,” she says simply. Sasquatch tries to squirm away, but she has him held tight. “I’m no one’s goddamn sweetheart. Secondly, yes, he’s with me.” She knocks back the rest of her drink in one long gulp, then tosses the glass to the side. “And thirdly,” she says, standing up. “You picked the wrong goddamn night to screw with me.”
With that, she twists his wrist until he cries out. Then she grabs his collar with her free hand, and throws him. He lands across the bar, smashing into people and tables.Instant chaos. Just how she likes it.
He matches her gaze, then he’s tossing his head back in laughter again. “My daughter, Warren the fourth. -Oww! Jeeze woman you got an arm on you.”. He’s rubbing his arm, shit eating grin on his face. “But they’d have little wings! They’d be cute as hell.” he says nudging her as they walked along. “I’d get a nanny duh. Maybe a little bird cage so they don’t fly off... Kidding.”
He’s preparing to say something boring and placating when they come over, maybe splash some cash around to smooth things over. Horrible influences of Charles Xavier and the laser eyed dweeb at work. Only, his super new friend, Jessica has a different idea.
The guy catapults over the bar. There’s a moment of shock. Then tables are being turned over, bottles smashed. The skinheads are coming, and they’re pissed. Warren reaches over the bar and turns up the stereo, adding music to the cocaophony of yelling, chairs being dragged, people stumbling over themselves to reach them. Hell is coming in a handbasket anyway so fuck it. “Cheers.” he toasts her before slamming his drink.
He kicks a stool in the path of the first few. A guy goes flailing and collides with Warren’s foot. The rest don’t go that easy. A hop in the air and he’s jumping in the thick of it. The guy he crashes into seems very confused. A quick knee to the head puts him out of his misery. The rest Warren plays with, taunting their beer bellies and shitty mohawks as he laughs his way around their wild swings. One goes for the wings, and then it’s arms bent back over elbows and heads smashed against table ledges. Never go for the wings.
He’s just starting to have fun when a shotgun blast goes off. Bits of ceiling sprinkle over him. “THAT’s ENOUGH!” cries the barman with his shotgun pointed at him then at Jessica. “Hey, man.” Warren’s got his arms wrapped around the neck of a guy who’s trying his best to guage his eyes out and he’s trying to sound reasonable. “We were just lookin’ for a drink.”. “-NO.” the man cuts him off. “I know yer kind. All ya do is bring trouble. Now get out.” he cocks the shotgun. “Or I’ll blow you n’ your friend to kingdom come and ya can peace with ya God for what you are.”
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