[She's right. This shit is getting old. But talking to her? Sophie Cuckoo? About his feelings? No. Even if he had the words—which he doesn't, honestly—he wouldn't expect her to understand. He doesn't understand most of this mess. At best, he'd get derision. At worst, pity.
Quentin looks down at the book in her hand like touching it would instantly melt his skin off. Then he steps away, turning his back toward her to idly inspect some other shelves.]
(Sophie Cuckoo is many things, but stupid is not one of them. There's no doubt in her mind that this is going to majorly suck. Quentin, although aware, doesn't know how her self-perception has been shifting now that she's one, not five — there's more understanding from her about just how selfish, backstabbing and self-centered the Stepford Cuckoos are than there was, and that, of course, includes her.
Being the bravest one does suck majorly, because she's facing this headache without second thought. One sweep of her hand, she moves them out of his brain into hers, reasoning of comfort, illusion of some type of control. The clothes she wears also shift to the staple Cuckoo uniform they've worn since forever, gloves holding onto the book before she drops onto the couch. Quentin is free to join her, or just stink eye her standing like a loser. Whichever way, it's fine by her. On the armchair, there's a DVD case called 'The Quentin Quire vs Sophie Cuckoo Showdown', he's welcome to look at that, that's why it's there.
Once she opens the book, the first thing she sees is... Whatever this loop of insecurity is. 'Not good enough' is basically the punchline of the page she's looking at, and she doesn't get it. It doesn't... Make sense to her, because, well. At least it's not mockery, or pity. He's getting honesty.)
... Quire, you yelled at me! You told me to my face you moved on and you're over me. You know what your problem is? You don't follow through with shit. You want me to see you? Good, because that's what I have been trying to do, too. Guess what, though, you don't let me! You want me to want you, you fucking do something real about it, but I'm not gonna be here just waiting, having my life on pause while Quentin Quire figures his shit out.
[Quentin lets her move them to her mind, even if part of him wants to resist. He glances at the DVD she's left out for him, but doesn't investigate, choosing instead to wander idly around the place. Why bother? He's living the Quentin Quire vs Sophie Cuckoo Showdown every goddamn day these days, it seems. Including now.
He can feel her digging in his mind when she opens the book, pushing down his uneasiness as she starts sifting through raw, vulnerable thoughts and feelings that he has absolutely no desire to share with anyone, much less Sophie. But the two of them were in a holding pattern. A nasty, awful, unproductive holding pattern of hurt feelings and miscommunication. Like she said. Shit's getting old.
When she looks up and starts yelling, he flinches. Less so physically—he's conveniently found a reason to face away from her at the time—but mentally, it's much harder to hide, given she's elbow-deep in the localized Sophie-specific section of his brain and she is, in fact, Sophie. It fucking hurts, and it's proof that he never should have even tried. Well, too goddamn late now. He let her in so she could shred him to pieces, but hey, at least it wouldn't be the first time a Cuckoo's mutilated his stupid emotions for their own entertainment. "Do something real about it". Right. Because letting her dig around in his fucking head to gawk at his inner turmoil isn't "real".
When they transitioned to her mind, his clothing changed from his housecoat to a pink cardigan sweater, mostly so he'd have some jacket-adjacent pockets to cram his hands into when he inevitably didn't know what to do with them. Didn't take long.]
Oh, gee, I can't imagine why I was ever avoiding this conversation. Look, can you just finish going through my dirty laundry and call me a piece of shit so I can move on with my day?
(It's the disbelief that really gets her, at first. The thought that she is doing this for amusement, anger boiling to the surface before suddenly, it's like a water drop in a lake. They, she earned it. There's no hiding behind all her lost years, because the moment she breathed again, well. She's done it. Quentin. Cable. David. Kamala. Laura. Anole. She deserves it, doesn't she? Of course he doesn't trust her best intentions, even to something as small as her trying to bridge them with a surprise. In any other circumstances, she'd find this massively amusing, she'd giggle in a circle of identical faces, rolling eyes.
But, she's been trying. It's a choice, as Kamala put it. Unlearning what she knows is so difficult, the way she lived, breathed, synchronized with brains that are no better than her own, and she hoped he'd see it.
But of course, he doesn't. She feels... Horrible is one word to put it, but there are plenty of others to describe it. Apologetic, because she knows, and she's not nearly ready to say it just yet, and the third feeling, the one she hates the most? Vulnerable. Being the bravest Cuckoo is a horrible curse, because every time she feels uncomfortable (every second) in this open connection they are sharing, she has to manually stop herself from pulling back, halting the instinct to close the connection and build a wall between them for self-preservation. To be seen so closely, so intimately, is horrifying to someone like her, and yet, as much as she hates it, fears it, she knows there was no moving forward without it. Shit's getting old, and she can apologize for the push and pull of stopping herself from closing up later.
Right now, she's gathering courage. Sophie is not great at apologies, she never doles them out freely, it's a whole new concept that she isn't comfortable with either, and part of her wonders if she really needs to say it when he knows she is sorry.
She does need to say it. For fucks sake, this is going to go out all awkward and botched, and with how their pattern goes, she's sure he's going to hate it. They'll fight more. This is going to be a disaster.
Okay.)
Listen. You're right, okay? I'll be the first, and probably only Cuckoo in history to say this, but we — (herself included, she is not exempt) — have a reputation for a reason. A Cuckoo's priority is a Cuckoo, nothing is good enough for us, and we can't care about anything for long, unless we can use it, play with it, or break it.
(This is a shitty apology. Fuck, okay. Okay.)
I am trying to do better, though, because I want to change before it's too late. I can't apologize on behalf of the Five-In-One, they are not sorry, but I can apologize for Sophie Cuckoo. If you don't want to accept it, that's fine, I get it, I'll leave you alone, you won't have to deal with me again.
... But I really want to solve this, because at this point, I don't even get it, so I hope you can give me the chance to. I'm sorry, Quentin.
[She's responding to the thoughts she dug out of his skull. Classic Cuckoo shit. It is admittedly cathartic to hear her admit what she and her sisters do—use things, play with them, break them. No. Not things. People. People like Quentin.
Unfortunately, admitting it doesn't change anything. Apologies don't change anything. The guilt and shame and discomfort he can feel in her head? None of those change a damn thing. The only thing that fucking matters is what someone does, and so far all Sophie's done is talk. Well, no, that's not true. She's done plenty, in fact. Sophie's fucked him every way except the way that might actually be halfway enjoyable. The way that's apparently reserved for every young guy with psychic powers, as long as he's over 5'9" and meets an arbitrary muscle mass percentage benchmark. He wasn't lying about being over her. Still doesn't make it fun to have his failings highlighted and what few of his strengths she finds valuable exploited.
He huffs, feeling her mental fingers scraping the inside of his brain like she's actually gouging those manicured nails into his gray matter, and finally, finally looks over at her.]
I can feel you rummaging around upstairs, so I assume I don't need to explain shit to you. You planning on backing up any of this newfound conscience of yours, or are you just going to keep telling me how you're so totally "different" now?
(It wasn't that weird that she was in his mindscape, she thought. Sophie has made it pretty clear, if not with words, but with the comfort she feels in his brain, that she likes it there. It's, for lack of a better word, cozy. It runs so snappy that it pleases the nanotech bullshit in her spine, feels in pace to what she can process, that she can't help but visit it. Although it was the first time she was actively searching for something, she had been there before, hence why she didn't fully understand why he was so pressed to see her.
Now she gets it. It's because of Nate... Or also Cable. Either, both, or probably because of Quentin himself. Because he feels that he isn't enough, considering what she had read, and it has nothing to do with Sophie herself at the end of the day. There is something that isn't going through Quentin's tough skull, though, or maybe she just didn't let him understand it.
He has hurt her, too. She sucked, but so did he. She lost years of her life. She was resurrected with terms attached. She was replaced, like none of that really mattered anymore. She couldn't give less of a shit about any Omega-level power. There are things about Quentin she thoroughly enjoys, but only when he lets her see it, when he's not hiding it under all the layers of sarcasm, self-destruction, simping, and overcompensating.
That, that she cares about, but he robs her of it all the fucking time. Shit's getting old, and she too is upset.
Tiredly, because she is listening, and not yapping back, she sighs.)
Quentin rubs his forehead wearily and moves to the armchair, irritably tossing away the DVD she left there so he can dump his sorry ass into it.]
Nothing. I guess. I don't know.
[He... knows he's hurt her. He got her killed, so of course she'd be a little salty about that. He remembers, even though the haze of reforming himself from the astral plane, the guilt he felt when he realized she'd paid the price for his stupid riot. And yeah, maybe "I'll bring you back to life if you date me" is.... cringe, to say the least, but come on! He was an idiot kid, he was grieving, had the world's worst brain fog, and oh yeah, the goddamn Phoenix was demanding he prove his love was strong enough to be worthy of her power. Spoilers: it wasn't. And Phoebe? Phoebe was never a replacement for Sophie. She was just the one who said hi. The one who made him feel good. A little less lonely. And yes, he does recognize the irony of all of that at this moment, thanks very much. He's very aware how fucking pathetic he is. Hypocrisy, thy name is Quentin Quire. That's nothing new.
And that's the other thing, isn't it? She thinks he's hiding the best of himself somewhere deep down and that there's some secret, extra-charming, perfect Quentin Quire buried under all the cynicism and irony and compulsive urges to systematically ruin everything good in his life. As if he would be keeping that fucker under lock and key if he had the option of parading him around. It'd sure as hell make it easier to do this whole "trying to be better" bullshit he's attempting. But unfortunately for everyone, including and especially Quentin himself, this miserable asshole is all there is.
(And that's the grievance that she tried to explain to him on that yelling match, but of course, she suffers from telepath communication skill issue, like he does. She paid the price for the idiot kid shit he pulled — how could he have believed Esme, for fuck's sake? Seriously, bitch made out with the world's ugliest alien and got bamboozled by it, she really has very room to give anyone in this world or the next romantic advice.
Wait, not fair. This is not about Esme. Different show, different genre, she's getting a little worked up here.
What she is picking up is about another sister, and that's a whole different can of worms, because she remembers exactly how Quentin looked in Krakoa, and that's when it hits her. Phoebe played a bit of Build-A-Man, didn't she? Of course she did. That's never what Sophie would want, not what she was going with this.
It's more about that, up until very recently, until those eggs at late night when she was depressed, upset, and alone... There hadn't been anything from Quentin Quire to Sophie Cuckoo that was genuine in a way that appeases her. Something he did for her because she needed him, and she asked. Something that made her honestly happy. She had never seen anything good out of him with her pair of eyes.
She can deal with his shit, has dealt with his shit, is dealing with his shit. It's a different vibe.)
["Build-A-Man" hits him like a ton of telepathic bricks. It's not... wrong, per say, even if it's not exactly correct. He started making edits long before Phoebe, uh. Well, okay, no sense in euphemisms—Phoebe fucked him. He assumes it was probably good, considering she came back later, but apparently he died at some point afterward soooo those memories are gone for good. Not on a mission. In some stupid way that nobody noticed until the next Cerebro update didn't pick him up. They never wasted X-Factor resources on investigating Quentin's non-mission-related deaths. When he disappeared, whether or not there was a body, they just assumed he was dead. They were never wrong. Eh. Sucks to suck.
The edits, though? They helped. Sort of. In a fucked up way. He doesn't know if they're why Phoebe got with him, though he can make a few educated guesses considering she didn't so much as look in his direction until Krakoa, and she never made any suggestions or anything. Hell, he's not sure she knew about his custom requests outside of the obvious ones.
Aaaand now Sophie knows there were more than the most obvious ones, so. Love that for him.
But hey, at least he made her eggs one time. Or whatever. Ugh. Quentin leans forward, resting his elbows against his knees, and pushes his glasses up to shove the heels of his hands into his eyes.]
(Sophie's been fighting her self-preservation instincts this entire conversation so she doesn't automatically close the free flow connection whenever it threatens her with sharing her own vulnerability. Sophie is on team 'I do not want to end up like you' when it comes to Emma Frost, but the diamond was cut out from somewhere, and the lengths she'd go to protect herself are, well. Oof. Ruthless pragmatism.
This? This is a conversation she wasn't remotely ready to have, so she's trying so hard not to shut down with it. He's making an effort, she has to do the same, but this bothers her much more than the resurrection subject, or even her death — it wasn't entirely on him, after all. It just... Aches, from all sides.
For all he believes she wants to hurt him, well, she doesn't, and participating in this thought swap is only going to do that when it comes to Phoebe. She's not closing up, as much as she is avoiding the thoughts, paying attention to his, and it's... Complicated, surely, because what isn't? She just doesn't know how to deal with this part of their baggage.
[Quentin has to... well, not block her—the connection between their minds is still open, even if he can feel her struggling with the desire to flee, and sis? Hard same—but the anxiety in her head forces him to turn his focus away. Center himself. Calm his mind.
For a long moment he just sits. And breathes. And feels the world out there in the physical plane. The minds of the mutants in the mansion, the other people in Etraya, the animals, birds, the tiniest sparks of insects out there. Not touching them or listening to them, just... sensing them. It's so, so much quieter than the barrage of sensory input he's used to, but it'll do. At least this little chunk of the world feels alive, and that'll have to be sufficient for him to ground himself.
He focuses, and he breathes, and he slumps in this stupid fucking chair in Sophie's Cuckoo's weird empty liminal space of a mindscape, while she sits over on her couch like a really sexy bump on a log. And then, head still in his hands, he finally speaks, huffing an utterly exhausted, breathy chuckle.]
You're really bad at this.
[It's... a little bit of a joke. Like maybe 15% joke.]
(To each, whatever they need to do. For Sophie, that's connection, linking, synchrony, because under normal circumstances, she wouldn't be one. He busies himself with his scan, she moves her focus to his hypothalamus — breathing, synched, heart rate, synched, and her focus is on how it all flows. That's her grounding, her eyes closed as she just listens to it and lets it calm her nerves for a second.
She's not perfect. This is hard, and she crosses a leg on top of the other to really pay attention... Until he speaks and disturbs it. Not mad at all, actually, instead, it pulls an extraordinarily genuine laugh out of her, before her nose wrinkles in embarrassment and her eyes shut close as she tries to fight the...
Blush?)
I know... I've never done this shit before, it's all very new, okay? Fucking is less intimate than this, leave me alone.
[He can hear her laugh, feel her cheeks heat up—much to her chagrin—and it's all so idiotic that the side of his mouth quirks up into a crooked smile entirely outside of his control. His hands drop from his eyes, but he stays slumped forward, resting his forearms against his thighs with his hands hanging between his knees.]
That's because you only fuck himbos.
[Look. No shade to Nate. Or Cable, he supposes. Quentin never really knew the kid, but he seemed nice enough. Himbos are totally valid and respected, we stan, blah blah blah.
But they're both so totally himbos. And Sophie knows it.]
(Where's her pillow, so she can hide her red face in for a hot moment. God, it burns, make it stop, she hates it, she doesn't blush, what the FUCK kill it with a thousand fires she hates it
With her face buried on the fabric, one finger and a black nail stand as she goes through this torture of going through an out of this, even through people she had a fleeting thing with. She wouldn't call them himbos, thank you very much, they're just... Hot, okay. Cable, well. Dork. Pretty hot, though. Proudstar, well, that was a weird time. Nate's just a bit clueless, not on him, though. Julian... It's the jock energy, okay.
She doesn't know what tarnishedmoodring looks like. He doesn't sound like himbo material, he's... Something else, but she doesn't know, does she? Snarky dumbass that won't stay down in Summoner's — ugh, she misses him. If Quentin wondered why she won't leave her phone alone even if it has no service, well, this is why.
[Great, yeah, a list of every himbo Sophie's ever thought was hot. Including a few Quentin didn't know about until now! Love that for him.
Oh well, at least he gets to watch her absolutely crash out over the fact that she somehow never realized she has a type. And that her type is himbo. Which it obviously is. Quentin lifts his head slightly, looking at her over the frames of his glasses with a raised eyebrow.]
Nobody said fucking himbos is bad. [He shrugs loosely.] I'm just saying, not exactly a wellspring of profundity.
(Hope he's enjoying talking to the golden strands of hair because she's not giving him the satisfaction of being the first person who managed to make her blush, even if she knows he knows her face is degrees hotter than it should.
She's not even looking at him, thank you, and fuck you.)
[Oh, he knows, alright. He knows exactly how flushed her face feels right now, and he would be lying if he said he wasn't entertained. Quentin's quite certain any of the Cuckoos getting flustered like this is rare, and her mind readily confirms that hypothesis. He never saw this from Phoebe, either. It's... kinda fun, actually. In like a mild schadenfreude kind of way. He looks down at his hands again and raises one to adjust his glasses.]
Eh.
[That's a yes. And then, an intrusive thought. That he absolutely should not say because it is not even remotely the time or place.
Of course he's enjoying this, and if the roles were swapped, she'd be having a damn blast right back. God, karma is a bitch, and she just wants to talk to Her for one moment, maybe to show Sophie some mercy.
But it's the intrusive thought that he chooses to turn into an outside thought that proves to her that karma does not give shit about her feelings.
Un. Beliveable. She's dead again, pretty sure.
Any other time, any other place, this is a normal Tuesday. Right now, with her face already in pins and needles with the fluster she feels, all the rollercoaster of emotions they decided to ride, this only makes her skin reach the limit of how red it can go. The pillow is thrown at him with no care, her eyes squinting immediately in her indignation.)
What exactly in the last months, including the last hour, tells you that us is a good idea?
[The irony is if she threw a pillow at him in the outside world? All but guaranteed it'd smack him in the face, and she would be rewarded with some kind of squawk or otherwise ungraceful noise and fumbling and such. Unfortunately, Sophie chose to throw something at an Omega level telepath while in someone's mind. Doesn't matter if it's her own mindscape. Brains? That's his bread and butter. He catches the pillow easily and gestures vaguely with it in a shrug, not nearly as expressive or casual as his usual body language, but recognizable as a version of it.]
You're the one who said fucking was less intimate.
[He sticks the pillow between his back and the chair and leans against it. Now you don't have a pillow to hide your blushing into, Sophie. So nyeh.]
By your logic it'd be an improvement on this dumpster fire.
(Bitch. She's gonna have to throw a pillow at him out of her brain at some point. There's no mentally fighting Quentin for her, especially when she's just one, but out of here, she's going to kick him. She's very determined, because not only did he catch it with ease, but he also takes it.
Hope he enjoys a pink-colored Sophie, contrasting with the ocean blueness of her glaring eyes.
Don't bring logic into her brain.)
Logic aside from the very reasonable statement due to the fact you're literally hearing my every unfiltered thought and so am I for you, we already argue like a bitter divorced couple who can't decide on the terms and we've never even had a thing. If that weren't the case, sure, whatever, but it is, so nope.
[There's a difference. He's assuming she knows that, based on the way they got into this topic. And the latter? Out of the question. They can't communicate for shit even when literally crawling in each other's heads, and that's even if he had any interest in a sequel to The Phoebe Debacle. The former? Well, it's never really appealed to Quentin before but... hm. Whatever. He holds his hands up in surrender.]
Look, I'm not arguing. Like I said, us? Dumpster fire. No matter how you slice it. No reason to think there'd be any exceptions.
[... That said, her face is still very, very pink. And he kinda wants to know if it can get pinker. You know. For science. Or something. He looks up, watching her intently, the slightest hint of a smirk tugging at one side of his mouth.]
... Or, you know. You're just scared you'd like it.
(Listen, they are neither fucking nor dating and it's already bad. The joke is hardly a joke, they jumped over literally every stage and landed on DIVORCE. The bombastic side-eye intensifies at the mental comparison, because excuse her, she is not Phoebe, in case he hasn't noticed. Phoebe is Esme light, and Sophie is exactly on the opposite end of that scale. Sophie doesn't care about power — not a bone in her gives a fuck about Quentin's nor Nate's Omega-level bullshit, Phoenix capabilities, titles, or any of that shit. If anything, the fact she genuinely likes a man she met through a dumb videogame so much to the point shit goes down and she doesn't look up from her phone — personality and texting only.
Phoebe... Well. He said it himself. The funniest part of all this to her is that she truly prefers Quentin like this, over Krakoa. She actually had honest-to-God fun with him on that dance floor, their date-not-date, and at that arcade. The thing is that reaching that is pure hell, like she has to go through a nation-wide landmine of eggshells. Okay, fine, she does that to him too, she GUESSES. This is why they suck. God, they suck so much.
At least he sees it too. Dumpster fire and all that.
Thing is, Quentin, she is very well aware that she would probably enjoy it. She has heard more than he would want to know that she has. Her face has already reached the limit on how red it can go, and it is slowly creeping towards it again because... This is idiotic.
It's stupid. It's a very nice break from how much she wants to ghost, but listen.
It's dumb.
She hates she's considering it. Maybe fucking gives them something else to focus rather than whatever the FUCK they are.)
I'm not scared of shit, thank you very much. If anything, I'm concerned it's gonna make you even more insufferable after.
(Defense mechanism, blablablabla.)
If. If we do this. I'm not saying we are. I'm saying if. That's all it is, and we agree it can't make this shit worse.
[Quentin both watches and feels the cogs turning in her head and realizes with mild surprise that she is genuinely considering it.
Oh.
Well.
Okay, sure. Why not. He can roll with that, considering he's discovered this new interesting thing where he can make her squirm in a decidedly un-Cuckoo-like way, and that's very fun. Sure, he'll have to grapple with the Phoebe in the room at some point considering the whole clone, "they have the same face/body" thing, but that's a problem for later. For now he just focuses on how this is the first goddamn time any of this has felt like it's not being dragged down with too many years of stupid baggage. He lets the smirk pull at the side of his mouth more and leans forward, resting his elbows on his legs and steepling his fingers in front of his face.]
Well, I will absolutely be more insufferable. Buuut it kinda seems like you might be into that, otherwise you would've shoved me out of your head a while ago. As for "this shit," [he does the air quotes, because of course he does] it's already a disaster of Biblical proportions, so how much worse could it get?
[Okay, that's a bad question. Experience has shown that with Sophie Cuckoo and Quentin Quire, there is always further down to go. He gives her a quick look like "yeah, I know" and rolls his eyes.]
Look. You like attention, right? I like showing off. We're both telepaths. Surely not even we can fuck that combo up. If we do this, we go with that. It's just, you know. For fun. That's all.
(They, they will have, because honestly, she also doesn't love that part of it all, but listen. It was not the pitch of fucking non-himbos that does it for her, because she does not agree with his assessment for like, half of the people she has interest in. It was more the fact that... Hey. If they are already in the Quentin Quire vs Sophie Cuckoo showdown like they're exes fighting for their lives without ever having talked properly, might as well get something out of it. At best, they'll solve it and it's something better, at worst, at least they'll have something tangible to be pissed about.
Although, probably, it's going to be halfway pending towards the latter. She knows them.)
Oh, shut up, I'm not into it. I'm taking a well-deserved break.
(Ugh. She hates it when Quentin Quire is right. They have been trying, and peace lasts at most 48 hours, but at the comment, she gets ready to tell him 'tremendously', before he confirms he knows it.
She has doubts that they can't screw this up. She's pretty sure they can. But, alas. At least this mistake, they're both on board with. That's a fucking first.)
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Quentin looks down at the book in her hand like touching it would instantly melt his skin off. Then he steps away, turning his back toward her to idly inspect some other shelves.]
You came here to snoop, right? Then snoop.
no subject
Being the bravest one does suck majorly, because she's facing this headache without second thought. One sweep of her hand, she moves them out of his brain into hers, reasoning of comfort, illusion of some type of control. The clothes she wears also shift to the staple Cuckoo uniform they've worn since forever, gloves holding onto the book before she drops onto the couch. Quentin is free to join her, or just stink eye her standing like a loser. Whichever way, it's fine by her. On the armchair, there's a DVD case called 'The Quentin Quire vs Sophie Cuckoo Showdown', he's welcome to look at that, that's why it's there.
Once she opens the book, the first thing she sees is... Whatever this loop of insecurity is. 'Not good enough' is basically the punchline of the page she's looking at, and she doesn't get it. It doesn't... Make sense to her, because, well. At least it's not mockery, or pity. He's getting honesty.)
... Quire, you yelled at me! You told me to my face you moved on and you're over me. You know what your problem is? You don't follow through with shit. You want me to see you? Good, because that's what I have been trying to do, too. Guess what, though, you don't let me! You want me to want you, you fucking do something real about it, but I'm not gonna be here just waiting, having my life on pause while Quentin Quire figures his shit out.
no subject
He can feel her digging in his mind when she opens the book, pushing down his uneasiness as she starts sifting through raw, vulnerable thoughts and feelings that he has absolutely no desire to share with anyone, much less Sophie. But the two of them were in a holding pattern. A nasty, awful, unproductive holding pattern of hurt feelings and miscommunication. Like she said. Shit's getting old.
When she looks up and starts yelling, he flinches. Less so physically—he's conveniently found a reason to face away from her at the time—but mentally, it's much harder to hide, given she's elbow-deep in the localized Sophie-specific section of his brain and she is, in fact, Sophie. It fucking hurts, and it's proof that he never should have even tried. Well, too goddamn late now. He let her in so she could shred him to pieces, but hey, at least it wouldn't be the first time a Cuckoo's mutilated his stupid emotions for their own entertainment. "Do something real about it". Right. Because letting her dig around in his fucking head to gawk at his inner turmoil isn't "real".
When they transitioned to her mind, his clothing changed from his housecoat to a pink cardigan sweater, mostly so he'd have some jacket-adjacent pockets to cram his hands into when he inevitably didn't know what to do with them. Didn't take long.]
Oh, gee, I can't imagine why I was ever avoiding this conversation. Look, can you just finish going through my dirty laundry and call me a piece of shit so I can move on with my day?
no subject
But, she's been trying. It's a choice, as Kamala put it. Unlearning what she knows is so difficult, the way she lived, breathed, synchronized with brains that are no better than her own, and she hoped he'd see it.
But of course, he doesn't. She feels... Horrible is one word to put it, but there are plenty of others to describe it. Apologetic, because she knows, and she's not nearly ready to say it just yet, and the third feeling, the one she hates the most? Vulnerable. Being the bravest Cuckoo is a horrible curse, because every time she feels uncomfortable (every second) in this open connection they are sharing, she has to manually stop herself from pulling back, halting the instinct to close the connection and build a wall between them for self-preservation. To be seen so closely, so intimately, is horrifying to someone like her, and yet, as much as she hates it, fears it, she knows there was no moving forward without it. Shit's getting old, and she can apologize for the push and pull of stopping herself from closing up later.
Right now, she's gathering courage. Sophie is not great at apologies, she never doles them out freely, it's a whole new concept that she isn't comfortable with either, and part of her wonders if she really needs to say it when he knows she is sorry.
She does need to say it. For fucks sake, this is going to go out all awkward and botched, and with how their pattern goes, she's sure he's going to hate it. They'll fight more. This is going to be a disaster.
Okay.)
Listen. You're right, okay? I'll be the first, and probably only Cuckoo in history to say this, but we — (herself included, she is not exempt) — have a reputation for a reason. A Cuckoo's priority is a Cuckoo, nothing is good enough for us, and we can't care about anything for long, unless we can use it, play with it, or break it.
(This is a shitty apology. Fuck, okay. Okay.)
I am trying to do better, though, because I want to change before it's too late. I can't apologize on behalf of the Five-In-One, they are not sorry, but I can apologize for Sophie Cuckoo. If you don't want to accept it, that's fine, I get it, I'll leave you alone, you won't have to deal with me again.
... But I really want to solve this, because at this point, I don't even get it, so I hope you can give me the chance to. I'm sorry, Quentin.
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Unfortunately, admitting it doesn't change anything. Apologies don't change anything. The guilt and shame and discomfort he can feel in her head? None of those change a damn thing. The only thing that fucking matters is what someone does, and so far all Sophie's done is talk. Well, no, that's not true. She's done plenty, in fact. Sophie's fucked him every way except the way that might actually be halfway enjoyable. The way that's apparently reserved for every young guy with psychic powers, as long as he's over 5'9" and meets an arbitrary muscle mass percentage benchmark. He wasn't lying about being over her. Still doesn't make it fun to have his failings highlighted and what few of his strengths she finds valuable exploited.
He huffs, feeling her mental fingers scraping the inside of his brain like she's actually gouging those manicured nails into his gray matter, and finally, finally looks over at her.]
I can feel you rummaging around upstairs, so I assume I don't need to explain shit to you. You planning on backing up any of this newfound conscience of yours, or are you just going to keep telling me how you're so totally "different" now?
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Now she gets it. It's because of Nate... Or also Cable. Either, both, or probably because of Quentin himself. Because he feels that he isn't enough, considering what she had read, and it has nothing to do with Sophie herself at the end of the day. There is something that isn't going through Quentin's tough skull, though, or maybe she just didn't let him understand it.
He has hurt her, too. She sucked, but so did he. She lost years of her life. She was resurrected with terms attached. She was replaced, like none of that really mattered anymore. She couldn't give less of a shit about any Omega-level power. There are things about Quentin she thoroughly enjoys, but only when he lets her see it, when he's not hiding it under all the layers of sarcasm, self-destruction, simping, and overcompensating.
That, that she cares about, but he robs her of it all the fucking time. Shit's getting old, and she too is upset.
Tiredly, because she is listening, and not yapping back, she sighs.)
... What do you want from me, Quire?
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A lot. But simultaneously? Nothing at all.
Quentin rubs his forehead wearily and moves to the armchair, irritably tossing away the DVD she left there so he can dump his sorry ass into it.]
Nothing. I guess. I don't know.
[He... knows he's hurt her. He got her killed, so of course she'd be a little salty about that. He remembers, even though the haze of reforming himself from the astral plane, the guilt he felt when he realized she'd paid the price for his stupid riot. And yeah, maybe "I'll bring you back to life if you date me" is.... cringe, to say the least, but come on! He was an idiot kid, he was grieving, had the world's worst brain fog, and oh yeah, the goddamn Phoenix was demanding he prove his love was strong enough to be worthy of her power. Spoilers: it wasn't. And Phoebe? Phoebe was never a replacement for Sophie. She was just the one who said hi. The one who made him feel good. A little less lonely. And yes, he does recognize the irony of all of that at this moment, thanks very much. He's very aware how fucking pathetic he is. Hypocrisy, thy name is Quentin Quire. That's nothing new.
And that's the other thing, isn't it? She thinks he's hiding the best of himself somewhere deep down and that there's some secret, extra-charming, perfect Quentin Quire buried under all the cynicism and irony and compulsive urges to systematically ruin everything good in his life. As if he would be keeping that fucker under lock and key if he had the option of parading him around. It'd sure as hell make it easier to do this whole "trying to be better" bullshit he's attempting. But unfortunately for everyone, including and especially Quentin himself, this miserable asshole is all there is.
... Phoebe never understood that, either.]
You're in my head. You tell me.
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Wait, not fair. This is not about Esme. Different show, different genre, she's getting a little worked up here.
What she is picking up is about another sister, and that's a whole different can of worms, because she remembers exactly how Quentin looked in Krakoa, and that's when it hits her. Phoebe played a bit of Build-A-Man, didn't she? Of course she did. That's never what Sophie would want, not what she was going with this.
It's more about that, up until very recently, until those eggs at late night when she was depressed, upset, and alone... There hadn't been anything from Quentin Quire to Sophie Cuckoo that was genuine in a way that appeases her. Something he did for her because she needed him, and she asked. Something that made her honestly happy. She had never seen anything good out of him with her pair of eyes.
She can deal with his shit, has dealt with his shit, is dealing with his shit. It's a different vibe.)
Holy shit, Phoebe really fucked you up.
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The edits, though? They helped. Sort of. In a fucked up way. He doesn't know if they're why Phoebe got with him, though he can make a few educated guesses considering she didn't so much as look in his direction until Krakoa, and she never made any suggestions or anything. Hell, he's not sure she knew about his custom requests outside of the obvious ones.
Aaaand now Sophie knows there were more than the most obvious ones, so. Love that for him.
But hey, at least he made her eggs one time. Or whatever. Ugh. Quentin leans forward, resting his elbows against his knees, and pushes his glasses up to shove the heels of his hands into his eyes.]
I miss her.
[Fuck.]
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This? This is a conversation she wasn't remotely ready to have, so she's trying so hard not to shut down with it. He's making an effort, she has to do the same, but this bothers her much more than the resurrection subject, or even her death — it wasn't entirely on him, after all. It just... Aches, from all sides.
For all he believes she wants to hurt him, well, she doesn't, and participating in this thought swap is only going to do that when it comes to Phoebe. She's not closing up, as much as she is avoiding the thoughts, paying attention to his, and it's... Complicated, surely, because what isn't? She just doesn't know how to deal with this part of their baggage.
Fuck.)
... I don't know what to say.
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For a long moment he just sits. And breathes. And feels the world out there in the physical plane. The minds of the mutants in the mansion, the other people in Etraya, the animals, birds, the tiniest sparks of insects out there. Not touching them or listening to them, just... sensing them. It's so, so much quieter than the barrage of sensory input he's used to, but it'll do. At least this little chunk of the world feels alive, and that'll have to be sufficient for him to ground himself.
He focuses, and he breathes, and he slumps in this stupid fucking chair in Sophie's Cuckoo's weird empty liminal space of a mindscape, while she sits over on her couch like a really sexy bump on a log. And then, head still in his hands, he finally speaks, huffing an utterly exhausted, breathy chuckle.]
You're really bad at this.
[It's... a little bit of a joke. Like maybe 15% joke.]
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She's not perfect. This is hard, and she crosses a leg on top of the other to really pay attention... Until he speaks and disturbs it. Not mad at all, actually, instead, it pulls an extraordinarily genuine laugh out of her, before her nose wrinkles in embarrassment and her eyes shut close as she tries to fight the...
Blush?)
I know... I've never done this shit before, it's all very new, okay? Fucking is less intimate than this, leave me alone.
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That's because you only fuck himbos.
[Look. No shade to Nate. Or Cable, he supposes. Quentin never really knew the kid, but he seemed nice enough. Himbos are totally valid and respected, we stan, blah blah blah.
But they're both so totally himbos. And Sophie knows it.]
1/2
With her face buried on the fabric, one finger and a black nail stand as she goes through this torture of going through an out of this, even through people she had a fleeting thing with. She wouldn't call them himbos, thank you very much, they're just... Hot, okay. Cable, well. Dork. Pretty hot, though. Proudstar, well, that was a weird time. Nate's just a bit clueless, not on him, though. Julian... It's the jock energy, okay.
She doesn't know what tarnishedmoodring looks like. He doesn't sound like himbo material, he's... Something else, but she doesn't know, does she? Snarky dumbass that won't stay down in Summoner's — ugh, she misses him. If Quentin wondered why she won't leave her phone alone even if it has no service, well, this is why.
Shit.)
...
2/2
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Oh well, at least he gets to watch her absolutely crash out over the fact that she somehow never realized she has a type. And that her type is himbo. Which it obviously is. Quentin lifts his head slightly, looking at her over the frames of his glasses with a raised eyebrow.]
Nobody said fucking himbos is bad. [He shrugs loosely.] I'm just saying, not exactly a wellspring of profundity.
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She's not even looking at him, thank you, and fuck you.)
... You think I only care about looks.
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Eh.
[That's a yes. And then, an intrusive thought. That he absolutely should not say because it is not even remotely the time or place.
And yet.]
I know how you can prove me wrong.
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Of course he's enjoying this, and if the roles were swapped, she'd be having a damn blast right back. God, karma is a bitch, and she just wants to talk to Her for one moment, maybe to show Sophie some mercy.
But it's the intrusive thought that he chooses to turn into an outside thought that proves to her that karma does not give shit about her feelings.
Un. Beliveable. She's dead again, pretty sure.
Any other time, any other place, this is a normal Tuesday. Right now, with her face already in pins and needles with the fluster she feels, all the rollercoaster of emotions they decided to ride, this only makes her skin reach the limit of how red it can go. The pillow is thrown at him with no care, her eyes squinting immediately in her indignation.)
What exactly in the last months, including the last hour, tells you that us is a good idea?
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You're the one who said fucking was less intimate.
[He sticks the pillow between his back and the chair and leans against it. Now you don't have a pillow to hide your blushing into, Sophie. So nyeh.]
By your logic it'd be an improvement on this dumpster fire.
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Hope he enjoys a pink-colored Sophie, contrasting with the ocean blueness of her glaring eyes.
Don't bring logic into her brain.)
Logic aside from the very reasonable statement due to the fact you're literally hearing my every unfiltered thought and so am I for you, we already argue like a bitter divorced couple who can't decide on the terms and we've never even had a thing. If that weren't the case, sure, whatever, but it is, so nope.
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[There's a difference. He's assuming she knows that, based on the way they got into this topic. And the latter? Out of the question. They can't communicate for shit even when literally crawling in each other's heads, and that's even if he had any interest in a sequel to The Phoebe Debacle. The former? Well, it's never really appealed to Quentin before but... hm. Whatever. He holds his hands up in surrender.]
Look, I'm not arguing. Like I said, us? Dumpster fire. No matter how you slice it. No reason to think there'd be any exceptions.
[... That said, her face is still very, very pink. And he kinda wants to know if it can get pinker. You know. For science. Or something. He looks up, watching her intently, the slightest hint of a smirk tugging at one side of his mouth.]
... Or, you know. You're just scared you'd like it.
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Phoebe... Well. He said it himself. The funniest part of all this to her is that she truly prefers Quentin like this, over Krakoa. She actually had honest-to-God fun with him on that dance floor, their date-not-date, and at that arcade. The thing is that reaching that is pure hell, like she has to go through a nation-wide landmine of eggshells. Okay, fine, she does that to him too, she GUESSES. This is why they suck. God, they suck so much.
At least he sees it too. Dumpster fire and all that.
Thing is, Quentin, she is very well aware that she would probably enjoy it. She has heard more than he would want to know that she has. Her face has already reached the limit on how red it can go, and it is slowly creeping towards it again because... This is idiotic.
It's stupid. It's a very nice break from how much she wants to ghost, but listen.
It's dumb.
She hates she's considering it. Maybe fucking gives them something else to focus rather than whatever the FUCK they are.)
I'm not scared of shit, thank you very much. If anything, I'm concerned it's gonna make you even more insufferable after.
(Defense mechanism, blablablabla.)
If. If we do this. I'm not saying we are. I'm saying if. That's all it is, and we agree it can't make this shit worse.
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Oh.
Well.
Okay, sure. Why not. He can roll with that, considering he's discovered this new interesting thing where he can make her squirm in a decidedly un-Cuckoo-like way, and that's very fun. Sure, he'll have to grapple with the Phoebe in the room at some point considering the whole clone, "they have the same face/body" thing, but that's a problem for later. For now he just focuses on how this is the first goddamn time any of this has felt like it's not being dragged down with too many years of stupid baggage. He lets the smirk pull at the side of his mouth more and leans forward, resting his elbows on his legs and steepling his fingers in front of his face.]
Well, I will absolutely be more insufferable. Buuut it kinda seems like you might be into that, otherwise you would've shoved me out of your head a while ago. As for "this shit," [he does the air quotes, because of course he does] it's already a disaster of Biblical proportions, so how much worse could it get?
[Okay, that's a bad question. Experience has shown that with Sophie Cuckoo and Quentin Quire, there is always further down to go. He gives her a quick look like "yeah, I know" and rolls his eyes.]
Look. You like attention, right? I like showing off. We're both telepaths. Surely not even we can fuck that combo up. If we do this, we go with that. It's just, you know. For fun. That's all.
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Although, probably, it's going to be halfway pending towards the latter. She knows them.)
Oh, shut up, I'm not into it. I'm taking a well-deserved break.
(Ugh. She hates it when Quentin Quire is right. They have been trying, and peace lasts at most 48 hours, but at the comment, she gets ready to tell him 'tremendously', before he confirms he knows it.
She has doubts that they can't screw this up. She's pretty sure they can. But, alas. At least this mistake, they're both on board with. That's a fucking first.)
Fine. You know what, fine. Let's do it.
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nsfw from here on out
rip
how is this her life
it's what she deserves
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