captaincold (ex_captainco884) wrote in newalliance, @ 2012-09-11 14:21:00 |
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Entry tags: | [event] age swap, captain cold, golden glider, heat wave, linda park, weather wizard |
Who: The Rogues, Open to Linda Park
What: After their challenge, the Rogues could really use a drink.
Where: Rogue Bar, NYC
When: Monday Sept 10 late/Tuesday Sept 11 wee hours [following this]
Rating: Haven't we been over this by now? R for Rogues.
Len was in a mood-- and not even a let's-go-punch-things kind of mood. After their challenge, it was pretty much agreed upon that they could all use a good drink. While Len's neck was no longer broken (he could still hear the sickening snap of his own bones breaking), he still sported a large bruise around his scrawny, teenage neck.
To be fair, he'd had worse bruises as a teenager- but that wasn't the point. Anyone, no matter how cold or hardened, sobered up quick when faced with their own mortality.
Len wasn't afraid of dying. Everyone died, from the lowest Rogue to the heroic Flash and everywhere in between. Everyone died. And while it still weighed heavily on him, his thoughts weren't on how much he didn't want to die- but rather what the repercussions would be. The Rogues would fall apart without him. Not just as a group of cutthroat thieves and mercenaries but as people. Mick wouldn't be able to control himself, Evan would O.D., Digger and Mark would go their separate ways, Lisa... God only knew what would happen to Lisa. Len didn't find the thought that they all needed him to be the least bit arrogant. They depended on him and looked up to him-- despite the many, many, many times that they butted heads. He wasn't just Lisa's Big Brother-- he was the big brother to the whole damn crew. And they needed him.
In thanks for saving his life, tonight's party was on Len. Jan (teenager though she was) had tried to lighten the mood by putting on Joan Jett and all the Rogues favorites. Even the regulars had been kicked out for a private Rogue celebration of 'Welcome Back From that Thing We All Saw on TV'. She was trying. Len, however, was not.
He sat at the bar, his legs dangling far above the ground and nursed a glass of bourbon, barely a quarter of the way in and already feeling buzzed (hooray for teenage tolerances and returning to the 'light weight' status). He ran his finger around the edge of the glass pensively, staring into the distance. He took a drag of his cigarette, coughing tar into (mostly) virgin lungs.