"Ain't what I meant." He's looking out at the guests, searching for familiar faces, noting the ones that aren't. "I mean here," he gestures to the room with his glass, "where they're busy provin' Tony Stark right." Not that it's much less strange for him, being at a registration party—but the X-Men are, by some unspoken agreement, playing the game. For now.

"I tried to cut it out," he adds. "Went all around where it shoulda been. Came right back." His tone is flat, pessimistic: of course it did.