The concert had been nice, but they'd had to stay towards the back of the auditorium because Wanda's ears were so sensitive. She couldn't handle the noise.

It was always the little things that annoyed him. Her temper, the way it flared up over the smallest of things, the way she had such great ears, but never listened to him. He wasn't full of excuses. He shouldered blame when it was his fault. He tried to be sweet, and to surprise her with gifts and dates using his Ragnarok money, but her twisted values and spacey personality always threw him off. She took offense over the weirdest crap. Liking gift horses in the mouth because he just didn't know her, or Rocky would have picked something better, or lah dee dah bull@*^%! It wasn't even that he had been unfair to her. He'd been more than fair and given her every chance. Even before he'd met someone else he could quite possibly like, the relationship had been on it's way out. It was just that they'd been holding onto it and trying to keep it alive.

He hadn't planned to dump her after the date. It just happened. Loud and noisily in the front lobby of the sanctuary. Lisa had looked grim, standing and watching as toxic barbs got flung back and forth. All the little things came out, hugely. One giant entity of problems that added up to an overbearing whole. They'd finally pulled the plug on the relationship and let the poor bastard die.

When it was over, he was pissed. Nobody had interfered but he was sure they'd take her side. He'd actually started liking the sanctuary which made everything sickly worse. He wasn't a mutant, but if we were being fair, mutants are as close to aliens as you'll find in this big lonely world. He'd been left alone. Nobody had come. Maybe his planet was dead or maybe they just had not wanted him. An intergalactic abandoned baby basket on a planet's doorstep.

Whatever. He didn't need them. He didn't need anyone. What he needed was hard liquor.

He hit the nearest bar. Scratch that. They were in Sanctuary territory. He took an Uber to a GOOD bar.

Elliott slumped into a bar stool and ordered whiskey on the rocks. Actually, he ordered two. "Keep em coming." Elliott sighed.

It was one of those days.
The kind that felt like it was never ending and the troubles kept coming. It wasn’t enough that she was short of two artists for her gallery opening or that the printing company misspelled her name on every single business card and flyer printed out and insisted it was her fault. No, she had to end her day arguing with Jerry of the renovating company about the fact that she had little over a week left until the opening and wires hanging from the walls and ceiling couldn’t be considered art. And to give him a crash course in conflict resolution and customer service, as apparently implying that your client suffered from PMS was the best he got.

It was one of those nights.
The kind that couldn’t be fixed by Loki’s antics and the crappy bottle of cooking wine in her fridge. Not that she ever had enough time to cook these days, anyway. It felt like her dreams were crushing her and she needed some harder liquor for that. Leaving Loki to snooze on the couch and dream his pug dreams happily, she didn’t even bother to change before going out. Business clothes it was.

Alexandra entered the first bar that caught her eye – she wasn’t really looking for anything in particular. It was small but looked well kept. It also looked like a sports bar. Her eyes wandered around the room, quickly scanning the crowd. A few patrons scattered here and there at the tables and what it seemed like a bachelor party of four tucked somewhere in a corner. No, thank you. Her attention shifted to the bar. A patron who seemed to have been perched up there for quite some time, a young man trying to woo his date while simultaneously keeping an eye on the MMA championship broadcasted on the TV above the bar and a green-skinned mutant, with two black antennae protruding out of his head. She weighed her options – two empty stools between the alcoholic and the couple, another two between the couple and the mutant.

She walked over, her heels clicking loudly against the hard wood floor at every step, and hopped on the stool next to the mutant. Alexandra was far from having any issues with mutants, not even an alien looking one. Sure enough, she was used with the mutant community in Moscow which was much more reserved but after a few weeks in New York, seeing a mutant held the same shock value as seeing graffiti on a wall.

Alexandra let her house keys and wallet rest on the bar – she hadn't been in the mood to look for a purse, really; her elbow soon followed. “Vodka Orange.” She ordered, as soon as the bartender looked over. Actually. “Double the vodka. Thanks.” Absent-mindedly, she rested her chin on her palm. The elbow propping it up slid slightly on the glossy surface of the bar as she relaxed.

Sighing softly, her eyes drifted to the tv, where Tony Lopez was trying to axe-kick his opponent. In the back of her mind, she wished she could do this to Jerry of the renovation company at the first opportunity she got.

He drank. He watched the fight. He tried to keep out of his own head. When you're upset, it's easy to do that, to get caught inside your own head, muttering to yourself. Thinking all the thoughts about what you could have said, should have said, would have said, to change how things had went. It wasn't like she was the love of his life. In fact, he really didn't know if he'd ever had one of those. What exactly is love? That seemed such a basic thing, but he'd never really grasped it. That seemed like something for other people.

She was stupid. He didn't need her. He liked her. He kind of missed her. At least certain parts of the relationship had been nice. He drank. Elliott remembered when they'd met, how strong she'd been, even when he'd been weak and hadn't helped much at the fight at the sanctuary. And yet, she'd still thought he was worthwhile. And from there, they'd dated, and he had gotten more comfortable with the Sanctuary.

The Sanctuary had scared him, at first. The reputation was terrible. But someone was trying to repair that. And she had been helping where she could. Bah.

He looked away from the fight, towards the side of the bar. Anything to distract him from having to think over the fight. Was he crazy? He was so angry. His eyes fell on a beautiful woman as she slid into the bar next to him. She had dark hair, and was dressed in business clothes. He needed an opinion, even if it was from a stranger. He didn't do this, really. Bother people. Elliott usually kept to himself (Yeah right). But the bitter memory, and the anger inside needed an outlet, or they'd erupt eventually. Like Vesuvius.

"Tell me," the green man looked at her. His voice was quiet at first, uncertain. But it grew in confidence while he spoke. "If someone in a relationship always finds fault with the nice things you do for them, picks things apart, and makes everything hard... and always talks about how some other guy would probably do it better. Am I crazy, sitting here in Margaritaville, or is it not my fault?" He laughed and shook his head. "Am I paranoid to think there was something going on I missed completely?" Hell. He missed things all the time. It would be par for the course if he missed her cheating on him.

This was one of those times when she missed Russia – the comfort and the life she’d build for herself there. A safe job, being a well known artist… actually having time to make art. A silent sigh escaped Alexandra’s lips – it was so long since she had managed to complete a painting. She missed it, that feeling of being able to get herself lost for hours in her own little world.

A tall glass filled with her liquor of choice, a stripped, rainbow colored straw inside it, appeared in front of her. She nodded at the bartender and raised the glass up until the straw touched her lips. Tony Lopez missed another hit. For a moment, she pursed her lips. The hell with that – Alexandra ditched the straw and gulped down a few sips of Vodka Orange from the glass. Licking her lips, she set the the glass back down. She wanted to ease her mind, not get herself wasted.

"Tell me,"

When had things gotten so out of control?

"If someone in a relationship-“

Her plan had been so carefully thought out.

“-always finds fault with the nice things-“

Every little detail.

“-you do for them,-“

A voice was interrupting the train of her thoughts.

“-picks things apart,-“

She looked over. “Are you-?”

“-and makes everything hard...-“

Yeah, the green skinned mutant was talking to her.

“-and always talks about how some other guy would probably do it better.”

About love troubles? Her eyebrows went up, her expression one of confusion.

“Am I crazy, sitting here in Margaritaville, or is it not my fault?"

The arch of her eyebrows softened, eyes narrowing slightly as she watched the man with curiosity. The lime green skin, the red eyes, the vertical nostrils, the lack of ears - she didn't mind but it wasn't like she'd seen this every day. The mutants in Russia didn’t usually wander out in the open. She did try to mask the initial stare.

"Am I paranoid to think there was something going on I missed completely?"

Right. Back to love troubles. The guy couldn’t have probably chosen a worse person for advice even if he tried. With her non-existent love life, he could have probably picked the drunkard on the other end of the bar and would have gotten a better opinion. One night stands really didn’t have much feelings involved. Actually-.

“Well,” She looked him up and down, shifting her body to the side. “grasshopper, sounds like you need to move on and find someone else.” Her index finger rose into the air. “And then another. And another.” her finger drew consecutive half-circles into the air, imitating a hopping motion. She concluded with a shrug – no feelings, no pain, right? Probably not the answer the man wanted, but it was the best Alexandra had. She took her glass from the bar top, raising the drink up in a mock-toast. Taking a sip, she shifted her body to face the bar once again and glanced at the tv. Tony Lopez had knocked out his opponent.

Well damn. The day just couldn’t stop getting worse.

It deserved another sip.

All the bitterness, all the vile anger, all the self-loathing and doubt and disgust, all of it... erupted, like Vesuvius, but not the way he had expected. It came out in a laugh. Not even a bitter one. A real one. Honest. "Hah!" Of all the responses she could have given, this right here, this one, had been the most reasonable. And maybe not touchy feely, but exactly what he had needed. A disregard for feelings and a call to action.

He did need to move on. He needed to get over it. She was probably cheating on him. Best not to dwell on that. There were better women, and more of them, potentially with no attachments, and meaningless fun. And he hadn't loved her. She'd made him pull his hair out, figuratively speaking, of course. Plus, he was fairly certain he could find someone better.

Elliott raised his drink to her, and smiled his nice little zipperlike jagged smile. "Too true," he said. He raised his drink in a mock toast, mimicking her, even if she may not have been fully paying attention to him. "I'll drink to that." And he did. There was nothing for it, other than to drink and move on. Her body language told him the comment HAD NOT been an open invitation to flirt with her.

He watched the fight, and gave her a moment of respectful silence. Then he shook his head, wincing at the knockout on the tv screen. "Hope you didn't have money on that fight. Personally, I feel like that guy has been fighting like trash lately. Even when he wins." Certain sloppiness. General observers might miss it. Connoisseurs of martial arts could tell you when and where he left himself open or missed opportunities. "Only makes sense it would catch up to him."

Looked like she'd come right from work. He didn't apologize for bothering her with lady problems. He didn't try and butt in on her life. But he didn't spare her from a bit of personal commentary. "Looks were both having a rough night." Elliott said wryly into his drink.

"Hope you didn't have money on that fight. Personally, I feel like that guy has been fighting like trash lately. Even when he wins. Only makes sense it would catch up to him."

This time, she didn’t question if Grasshopper was talking to her or not; she didn’t even feel surprised that he had started a conversation. That’s what people did in bars – socialized. Or drowned their sorrows. Or both. Alexandra wasn’t even sure what exactly she was searching for when she stepped foot inside. After all, the vodka wouldn’t exactly solve her problems… although drowning Jerry in a bathtub full of it had a certain appeal.

Glass still in hand, she looked over to the green-skinned man, throwing him a half-smile. Alexandra didn’t exactly feel disturbed by his attempts at conversation. Nor did she feel particularly excited about it. But she appreciated someone who had an eye for detail. “No money on the fight.” She replied, shaking her head briefly. “But two years ago, that man” she looked over to the tv for a brief second, where Lopez was monkeying around “knew how to fight.” Such a shame, really. “I guess winning King Of The Cage got to his head.” She added with a shrug. People usually did stupid things when titles got to their heads. Like Jerry, for example, who insisted on the fact that he was General Manager.

"Looks were both having a rough night."

Alexandra almost snorted and turned her face toward the bar. It was her turn to drink to that. “Mhmmm.” She acknowledged, letting her glass rest back on the bar top. Lazily stirring her drink with the straw, she shifted her body in the bar stool for a more comfortable position while her eyes slid back to Grasshopper. “New York is so…” she averted her eyes for a moment, looking off into the distance, searching for a good enough word to describe her feelings “...overwhelming.” It was what she finally decided on. Yeah, overwhelming was adequate since here she was, talking about it with a green-skinned stranger, in the middle of a bar. Alexandra sighed. When did she became so whiny?

Seriously, what she usually did was get up and fight. Idiots, deadlines, she beat all into submission. Keeping on fighting was the solution to her problems, not glasses of Vodka Orange. Alexandra gritted her teeth, swallowing her self pity. Unconsciously, she straightened her posture. No, she won’t drown her sorrows, she’ll enjoy a drink. With newfound determination, she added jokingly “There’s that. And also the fact that I currently despise all Jerrys.”. She shrugged, visibly amused. “I really hope your name isn’t Jerry.” Otherwise, fate would be just cruel.

Elliott knew all about people destroying themselves through pride or through sheer idiocy. Stupid Loki. "Pride goeth before the fall," he said to her somberly. "I remember that win. It is sad." He agreed.

Thank god he had his drinky drink. He drank to wash the bad taste of those combined failures from his mouth.

He commented on how they were both having tough nights. It felt like she'd been amused by something from the comment, but she turned away to hide her face, and he got no insight from that. Her focus shifted back to him for a moment, then back away as she mused. The woman talked about how overwhelming New York is, though it took her a second to find the right word. She finished no it. "It is that," Elliott commented, in agreement.

The woman sighed to herself. Elliott drank. Let silence grow comfortable with itself until the woman once again disturbed it. Her tone had shifted. It was a slight thing, but it felt more positive to him somehow, like she'd resolved to joke about her problems rather than let them rule her.

He smiled at her joke, revealing pearly white pointed teeth. It was a zipper of a smile, but it wasn't nasty or harsh. "Not Jerry," he informed her. "More Tom. Well. Thomas. Not like the cartoon cat. And that's a last name. My names Elliott. What about you?"

He wasn't certain why he'd given his real name. Not just his real name, but his full name. In the most rambling way possible, but there it was. It had been for the sake of a joke... but it had felt right. Not much room for paranoia and secret identities over drinks and shared problems.

Grasshopper smiled his strange, zipper-like smile at her. And although she hadn’t been exposed to many mutants back in Russia, especially not to those who had a physical mutation like the man in front of her, Alexandra didn’t feel scared… or disgusted. Or threatened. It felt … normal.

People feared what they didn’t understand, was what came to her mind. And mutants were just that – misunderstood.

"Not Jerry. More Tom. Well. Thomas. Not like the cartoon cat. And that's a last name. My names Elliott. What about you?"

That train of thought was interrupted as Grasshopper – Elliot answered her comment with a name. In an attempt to make a joke. Well, it was kind of a bad joke, but still, she found herself smiling back, a small laugh even escaping her lips. Bad joke or not, it helped her mood. Her whole body moved, turning toward Elliot, as she removed her fingers from her drink and extended her hand to him.

“Alexandra.” Smile. Pause. “Dimitri.” she tilted her head, looking to the side and shrugging slightly then looked back at him, straightening herself. “Unfortunately, no jokes about my name come to my mind right now.” Her smile grew larger as she finished her comment.

“So, you’ve been around New York for long?” her expression shifted to curiosity.

Well imagine that. Miracles do happen. She actually cracked a smile at his dumb joke. A small smile, tiny, minuscule, really, but a smile. AND a laugh. Alert the presses. Wait, don't. Him making people smile and laugh? That really wasn't unusual enough to be breaking news, was it? And they weren't even counting his face.

He traded grips with her as Alexandra introduced herself, him with his "limp fish" three-fingered grip, her with her decidedly human hand. His grip wasn't weak out of lack of practice, personal failings or disrespect. His hand simply didn't line up properly for hand shakes. Three fingers, slightly wider because they bridged the gap... they were fine for grabbing things. They just weren't handshake hands. Blame his alien heritage. He would never make a great president or politician.

He returned her smile as she quipped about a distinct lack of quips, and stashed the name away in his memory in case he ran into her again. Always a good idea to remember a name if given it.

She asked how long he'd been in New York and Elliott almost said he'd just arrived, then caught himself. "It's been a few years now." He said. "Yeah." He looked at his drink. "Guess it has. Doesn't feel like it. Time sort of gets away from you. Moved for a change of pace." Among other reasons, reasons he'd never really explored. "Got a job as an intern... but I'm thinking I'm going to look for something else. Another change of pace."

Yeah. Something else was probably a good idea. "What about you? Is this Jerry bastard work-related, or something else? Sounds like a monster. Want me to egg his car?" He was kidding, mostly. Mainly, he figured it was related to work or life, and that was far more worthwhile a question than the classic and impersonal 'what do you do?'

The hand shake was strange but somehow expected. It felt like it went hand in hand with his green skinned, alien –like appearance. Clearly, his physiology wasn’t built for shaking hands with people late at night in a sports bar. Her grip in a handshake was usually more powerful - years of business meetings taught her that trick until it became natural – but this time, Alexandra decided to be gentler, as she was unsure if his limp handshake meant his hands were more sensitive to pressure or whether his bones were more fragile than a human’s. Better safe than sorry, right?

"It's been a few years now. Yeah. Guess it has. Doesn't feel like it. Time sort of gets away from you. Moved for a change of pace. Got a job as an intern... but I'm thinking I'm going to look for something else. Another change of pace."

Years, huh? Apparently one could survive New York City for years. And if Elliot Grasshopper Thomas could survive the city, especially when it wasn’t always mutant friendly, she had no choice but to put her big girl pants on and face the music. “Well…” She too, looked at her drink, her hand soon following the trajectory of her eyes. Her fingers wrapped around the glass, her eyes went back to Elliot. “I’ll drink to that.” Glass up into the air, straw between her lips, she sipped from her drink with a half smile. Yeah, she knew a thing or two about change of pace.

"What about you? Is this Jerry bastard work-related, or something else? Sounds like a monster. Want me to egg his car?"

Alexandra lowered the glass, laughing at his last comment. Yeah, Jerry was a monster. He was the Nessie of customer service. “One more glass of that-” she nodded toward the orange colored glass she’d just placed back on the bar “-and I might just take you up on that offer. Hell, I’ll join you!” she joked back. Or maybe not. It was far less than what that prick deserved, anyway.

“He’s supposed to renovate this place I’ve rented for work and he keeps finding excuses. The car broke, one of the guys is sick, he has his tools borrowed, blah, blah, blah. And he’s an a$$hole about it.” Alexandra rolled her eyes. “Meanwhile, I have a deadline.” Her complaint ended with a shrug. It kind of felt good to let it out, even if it was in front of an (almost) stranger – while Loki was all ears whenever she decided to vent out her frustration, there was a point when her pawed companion’s antics did little to help her mood.

Elliott smiled at her response to his joke, taking it in stride that she was entirely not kidding, but probably wouldn't actually want to do anything with that knowledge. He could read it on her face. The desire to get back at all Jerrys, planet-wide, but also common sense enough not to do childish vandalism.

Her explanation made everything clear as Day. "Fire him. Hire new contractor? Call the mob?" Elliott shrugged. He was kidding, mostly, though often times there were connections between construction and organized crime in New York...

He got that she was venting, and not looking for solutions. But he kind of wanted to help. "I could probably give you the number of someone who could help you find a good contractor for a decent price. If you wanted to replace the disappointment with someone who knows where their tools are and has a working car."