Rogue had been sitting in the kitchen, listening to the familiar strains of discord, before she'd gone downstairs to change over her laundry, slip into a pair of jeans and a halter top, and then head for the rec room to wait for the rest to dry.
She stopped in the doorway and watched Brodie peruse for a moment before she started, barefoot and leisurely, across the floor.
"Morning." Brodie replied. He knew it was Rogue behind him, but didn't turn yet, instead looking past the children's books that were pretty much the entire selection.
"Do you know it's been over a fucking year, and I still haven't figured this shit out?"
"I would never have imagined," she drawled, just to prove she could, and then took up a perch on the arm of the sofa nearest Brodie, resting her elbows on her knees.
"How old were you when you stopped wettin' the bed?" she asked casually.
"Nine." Brodie immediately replied, then stopped, focus no longer on the bookshelf and it's contents, but on trying to figure out why the fuck she'd asked him that question.
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She stopped in the doorway and watched Brodie peruse for a moment before she started, barefoot and leisurely, across the floor.
"Mornin'," she offered. No questions.
Not yet.
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"Do you know it's been over a fucking year, and I still haven't figured this shit out?"
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"How old were you when you stopped wettin' the bed?" she asked casually.
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And WHY THE HELL HE'D ANSWERED IT.
He turned to face her.
"What the fuck kind of question is that?"
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