#*darwin

he doesn’t mind erik. alex, hank –– their personal bitternesses go over his head. he listens when angel rants about him, about his temper, how hard he pushes her. watches emma’s frustration from afar. her respect, too. he would listen to raven too, if raven would ever say anything. he knows, even now, after erik’s shaking anger has exploded in a low hiss, accompanied by his standard purple-ringed eyes and a manic-ness darwin doesn’t even want to touch –– even now, even though darwin has seen it, has caught the tail end of it, even now he knows raven probably won’t say anything. 

he goes around the kitchen in the ringing aftermath of erik lehnsherr and his grit-tooth righteousness, and makes two teas as neutrally as he can. the clink of them is calming. when he’s done he puts one in front of raven. 

“look at you, all fucking red.” he squints at alex, shielding his eyes. the grounds of westchester sprawl out ahead of him, green and yellow, blinding when the water catches the high sun.