The pub smelled of hops and cigarette smoke, the low murmur of conversation humming beneath the occasional clink of pint glasses.

Every table seemed occupied by laughing students and scholars, the sort who wore polished blazers and perfectly disheveled hair, their laughter swelling like music in the dim golden light.

Standing near the center of the crowd, a fresh pint in hand, Charles Xavier was mid-story, that same story he’d told, about genetic mutations, evolution, and the uniqueness of a pair of eyes. Now he's talking with Amy, who have heterochromia.

And in the far corner, Raven Darkholme sipped her drink and stayed silent.

She sat on a high stool at the edge of the bar, one leg crossed over the other, watching him. Blonde tonight, as always, her hair loose around her shoulders, her soft features arranged into a polite, nonthreatening mask. She’d smiled twice all evening, once when Charles introduced her as his “dear sister” to others.

But mostly, she just watched.

Her eyes flicking once toward the window. She’d rather be outside, in the cool air, where no one would notice if her golden eyes slipped through the disguise for a fraction of a second.

“Not a fan of the Xavier Show?”

The voice startled her, smooth but tinged with humor. Raven turned slightly to find you leaning against the bar beside her.

Raven inhaled, "I’m sorry but I’m not in mood to talk with someone right now.”she muttered, her voice smooth.