Exiles in Elseworlds

He's paused to light up a fresh stogie. After the crazy shit that just went down earlier with freakin' duplicates and people being from some kind of alternate universe, he needs the nicotine to try and slow his racing thoughts down, even if the effect's only temporary. Blood stains his clothing, torn and shredded from the night's activities.

And more surprisingly: He's still alive. They're both still alive, even. He wasn't expecting to make it 'till dawn. And yet, here they are. He exhales a deep blue-gray cloud, watching Ramon's huddled form in the light drizzle that's now falling from the sky.

And still, the question keeps coming back to this: Where do they go from here?

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The doorknob turns freely. That's both a surprise and a relief. The shapeshifter steps in out of the rain.

"My wife..." The voice cracks. "Irene is dead."

There's a thick, handwritten journal in the trenchcoat's pocket.

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Logan never had much in the way of even grudging respect for the woman -- there had always been an undercurrent of something that didn't smell right about her, from the moment he met her. But even this is a surprise for him, reflected in the raised eyebrow he gives Ramon now as he leans in the doorway.

"How?"

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"Arsnic. I take it in my coffee." A hand descends into the other pocket. "She left a note. She believed that if she didn't take her own life, you would've killed her within 32 hours." The note trembles in the blue hand.

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He's almost sorry he didn't see her corpse for himself.

Logan reaches for the note. "Can't think why she'd get that impression," he responds gruffly, and with a little sarcasm.

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marvel-citizens.livejournal.com

The note begins: 'I had twenty good years. You can't begrudge me that, you hairy savage. The two of you have scores more left. You would have done the same thing in my place...

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The first gets a noncommital grunt from him. He'll begrudge her a lot more before this is over with, he suspects. The idea he'd do anything the same as her makes the bile rise in his throat. He continues reading the crumpled paper.

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"Kurt, my...our son is still with the body. He isn't taking it well. She's the only mother he's ever known. I don't expect him to understand. It may take some time before he warms to you."

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The note is crushed into a ball in his fist. He's barely moved a muscle, but the sense of his posture has somehow changed. He's angry. Confirmation of his suspicions does nothing for his mood.

"She was right. I would've killed her."

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A nod, a swallow, an inability to meet his eyes.

"I know."

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This is victory. This is what it's like.

It doesn't feel like much of anything. Nothing's immediately different; nothing's changed. Logan turns away, pacing slowly into the kitchen and taking another deep inhale from his cigar. "So now what?"

He hadn't even contemplated what would happen if the mission succeeded.

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"I don't know." A cigarette. Yes. Smoking in the house has been forbidden for twenty years. It feels good to light up.

"My career is over. Everything I've worked towards for the last decade...gone. My son refuses to speak to me. My wife..." Tears well in gold eyes. "I don't know if I can forgive her." About faking Logan's death or taking her own life. Both ideas bring on a dark rage.

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That last, only time can answer. It will either fester or be released. He knows a great deal about the first.

Booted feet come back towards the shapeshifter now. And a large, callused hand meets the flawless skin of his former wife's face. A thumb brushes tears away.

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The blue cheek leans into his hand. Fingers hesitantly reaches out to touch his chest. One quiet sob later, the shape beneath the trenchcoat solidifies, losing ambiguity and gaining curves. The trenchcoat itself doesn't move, and it's suddenly clear that for once, Raven is actually wearing clothing.

An arm wraps tight around his waist and she holds on, burying her face in his chest.

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He'll hold her as long as she wants to be held.

"We'll figure it out, darlin'," he rumbles softly, after what seems like hours. "If it's one thing we're good at, it's managin'."

Managing well is debatable, however, at least on his end. But at least now he doesn't have to manage alone.

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She looks up at him, tears still streaming from her eyes, and wants to protest that she's too old to start over.

But...he doesn't look a day older than he did twenty years ago. And she has good reason to believe they have scores more ahead.

"Sell the house. It's full of too many bad memories. If we're starting over, I want to do it fresh."

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That much he can agree on right at this moment. This whole city is going to be in an uproar before the first papers hit the pavement tomorrow. "Got somewhere in mind?"

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She raises an eyebrow. "Toronto?"

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It'll be the first time she's seen him crack a smile since they came face to face again after more than twenty years.

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She couldn't take it any longer.

The safehouse was safe but it was also very, very boring. Marion was worried about her father and... her father. It had taken her hours and hours to get back here. She wasn't even sure where the safehouse had been to start with.

Opening the door, she isn't expecting to see anyone at all.

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She'll be greeted by a dimly lit kitchen, and two silhouettes outlined in the room's confines. One lifts his head in surprise, pushing back the chair he was about to sit in with a loud scrape across the aged vinyl floor; his entire posture on high alert before he realizes who it is, recognizes her scent. There's the stench of blood and death around them both. Silence coats the moment in a drawn-out and tense fashion. Then, he relaxes his stance, just a little.

"Marion."

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Marion freezes.

No... It ... It can't be.

"Poppa?"

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He just stands there, immobile; equal parts relieved and wondering why she isn't with their housekeeper at the safehouse he'd set up years ago in anticipation of tonight's events.

"How many other short hairy mutants do ya know?"

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"Poppa!"

Marion dashes toward her father in haste.

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Raven stands back slightly, not comfortable intruding on their reunion. They promised this girl she'd be an orphan by morning. For once, she's glad to have lied.

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He has just enough time to exhale another billow of stogie smoke before he's almost bowled over. It won't be the most pleasant of embraces, given his current state -- he's still in his torn and bloodied clothing, though his wounds from the confrontation with Xavier's cyborg earlier are all long healed.

"Hey, darlin'. Y'alright?"

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"Poppa."

Marion wraps herself around him, perhaps the first time she's done this in years. The blood doesn't bother her. At least not right now.

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It's a night of firsts and of actions that haven't seen the light of day for years, it seems like. Logan won't soon forget it. He'd been prepared, earlier this evening, to throw his life away and forever change his daughter's, for the sake of revenge. Now everything's been put into a different perspective -- one he never dared to entertain. A future with his wife, and his daughter.

"Ya ditched Luiza," he mutters into her hair, his arm around her shoulders.

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"I did. It was boring and I didn't know if ..." Marion looks over his shoulder at her mother. "I didn't... You're alive."

Both of them.

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"She'll go out of her damn mind wonderin' where ya are," he gripes as he follows her look over his shoulder. "Yeah. We are. This city's goin' ta be crazy fer a while, though."

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