#dany writes

It’s safe to say that Robert has never known anyone like you. Not anyone that he can remember, at least. Not with abilities like yours.

No, you don’t have powers, not in the conventional sense. You’re much like him, in that way – it’s like you have your own mech. Except your mech, your weapon, happens to be your eyes. Dazzling. Glimmering with mirth and mischief and everything that anybody would pay to see. You’re a doe-eyed beauty, and Robert knows it.

It’s one of the many, many reasons he fell so deeply in love with you.

At first, he had thought you were a siren of sorts. The way your eyes sparkled in the dappled sunlight in the park. The little creases at the corner when you smiled – because you always smile, even when there’s no reason to. The way they narrowed when the light caught them just right. He may as well have been a goner from the first moment he saw you, the way he was drawn in. Lured like a sailor on the sea. 

It was Beef that made the first move in his stead, however. That dog was the reason Robert even chose to talk to you in the first place, being that the leash escaped from his rather limp grasp when he sprinted toward you. Or rather, toward the dog treat-shaped item in your hand. You didn’t mind. In fact, your smile only grew wider as the chubby little chihuahua approached you for the first time – and your eyes became all the more sweet.

That was the day it happened. The day he first met you and decided you were someone to keep an eye out for. It took a while – several hangouts sitting along rows of barstools, talking the night away – but eventually he asked you out, and you said yes with a smitten grin on your face. It took even longer for the two of you to get serious, even though Robert knew from the start that you were the kind of person to share a life with.

It took a year for him to move in with you. Mecha suit and all. From that point, he did his absolute best to keep you a secret. For a multitude of reasons, if he’s honest. For one, he wanted to keep you to himself for just a while longer – didn’t want that bubble of sweetness to be popped by the hecticness of his work life, or his Z-Team. For another, he knew you’d be trouble. He knew that the moment he brought you to a celebration or a holiday party, you’d inevitably have his team wrapped around your finger.

It’s always in your eyes. He wonders still if you have a power that’s yet to be discovered – an aura of comfort and safety and warmth that always surrounds you. It would explain it, somewhat. How fucking loveable you are. Except he knows that’s… just who you are. You’re just that kind of person. 

Robert was right about the Z-Team becoming wrapped around your pretty finger. All it took was one invitation to a night out at the bar with you at his side, and it was a done deal. Even Invisigal, in all her curt and prickly ways, liked you from the get go. All it took was one smile, one pleasant little wink thrown her way, and she became a fan.

His team began to poke fun at him after that. Not because of you, but because you had more of a hold on them then he did. Whenever you’d join him and the team at a bar, or for a fun night out, you could rally the troops just by batting your eyelashes or giving them that look of yours. Those precious puppy-eyes, doe-like in their disposition, wide and wanting and pretty. Pleading with your gaze alone for them to fall in line, to find order once more.

Robert thinks you’d make a great dispatcher were it not for the fact that you’re already ridiculously happy with your own job working at a local animal shelter. He even suggested it at one point, after a bad day with his team spent failing every call they were assigned to. You’d only giggled and said he would get to your level eventually.

It came to a head at a holiday party at SDN. He’d invited you, because of course he did – you’re the only person in the world who can make those things tolerable for him. Not that he doesn’t love his team – he does, though he would never admit it out loud. But after a long week, sometimes all Robert wants to do is retreat back to your shared home and sleep the weekend away. That’s besides the point.

Robert had spent that little celebration watching from the sidelines as you laughed with his team. He remembers the smile that painted his face – wide and bright as he stared at you, waiting for the moment you’d grow weary and tell him you were ready to go home. Still, despite the chaos of the night, you never seemed to grow fatigued. You spent those hours drinking eggnog while hitching a ride on Golem’s back, or arm-wrestling with Sonar, or whispering under your breath about the latest book you’d read with Coupe.

All the while, his team would watch on with rapt attention in a way they never had with him. Not for a lack of trying on his part – because he had really, really tried to have that same effect that you do. Only to no avail. 

His puppy-eyes don’t seem to work all that much. It seems they haven’t since he was young and would ask Chase to go grab him something from the store. Robert just doesn’t have that effect anymore. The only thing that works for him is his plain-faced stare, his commanding tone of voice, the general disposition of leadership he possesses. His team will fall in line then, though not like they do for you.

They’re not wrapped around his finger, no. Just yours on account of your pretty doe-eyes.

It’s rare, cases like his, something you’re born with, and no one really knows how it comes about. It’s also something that can make people ridiculous amounts of money, bringing fame and fortune to those willing to make use of their ability to see in the public eye.

All the more reason for him to have never told anyone. Not beyond his parents. And Q, of course, but that’s just a given.

There are about a million hacks in the world claiming themselves able to see bonds, while there are just a handful who actually can. Peem has no interest in being swamped with requests from people wanting him to find their matches. However, very much in contrast to how countless movies make abilities like his out to be, Peem is not a divining rod. He can’t wander around the city somehow finding people’s matches. It doesn’t work like that. At least not for him.

All he can do is tell whether the universe thinks two people in front of him are meant to be. Like his parents. Like two of his childhood friends. Like his best friend and his best friend’s mentee.

It’s why he is so eager to help Toey get together with Q, why he can’t ever spurn Tan for his over the top declarations of love as soon as he meets Fang, why he is happy to watch Pun and Chain slowly shift their relationship into something entirely new.

It’s also why he is so damn terrified of letting himself fall for Phum. Because… Is it really love if he already knows for a fact that this person is meant for him? He isn’t sure whether that counts as love at all.

It terrifies him, down to his bones, that he might never be able to love his soulmate as the universe intended, as Phum deserves, as Peem is desperate to.

[ [ Insert some really angsty PhumPeem bits about Phum already having fallen and Peem still refusing to give him a chance, both of them absolutely miserable about it but Peem terrified his ‘love’ might never be entirely real due to him knowing they are meant to be (as in Peem being terrified that he might confuse knowing for love and, even if he does confess, his love might not be real enough to light up Phum’s mark which would break both their hearts and Phum might decide to leave him thinking them not soulbonded because his mark doesn’t show it) You know, just Peem being a bundle of insecurity and angst. Right until Peem’s abilities get revealed to Phum, likely in some dramatic turn of events, but Phum realizes what’s going on and love confessions are had and soulmarks light up and everyone gets their happily ever after. ] ]

“Of course, it’s love,” Phum murmurs in his ear, skin against skin, still heated from their earlier activities. “Whether you knew I would love you beforehand, whether you were destined to love me. I fell in love with you independent of fate, just as you did with me.” A soft laugh. “Better yet. You fell for me despite trying your best not to. If that isn’t true love, I don’t know what would be.”

Peem breathes out, closes his eyes, lets himself bask in the presence of the love of his life, the other half of his soul.

He maintains, soulmates are stupid.

‘Our Father, who art in heaven.’

You know the Lord’s Prayer. You know it like you know the back of your own hand. Like you know the color of the sea and the gentle feel of your mother’s embrace. It can be heard anywhere in the world. Recited in a multitude of languages, and yet it always sounds the same.

‘Hallowed be thy Name.’ 

It doesn’t surprise you to hear it anymore. It did, once. Back when you were a child and your powers were only just coming in. It surprised you that the first thoughts you ever heard were that of your neighbors – devout Catholics, and some of the kindest people you’d ever met. You were home alone. Your family was away at the grocery store when it happened for the first time. When you first felt the agony sprouting from your back and heard the murmurings of someone else's voice in your mind.

There was a moment in which you thought the voice was God. When you looked in the mirror and saw the black, feathered wings like a shadow on the wall. There was a terrifying moment when you thought the Lord your family never really believed in was beginning to speak to you.

You were raised agnostic. Raised with respect toward religions but with no concrete belief of your own. That was why it was so startling. Because, at that moment, the only thought you could have was why me? Of all people, the God who held the faith of billions aside from you had chosen to plant His voice in your head. A child who didn’t believe. Who couldn’t even if she wanted to.

A million different thoughts flew through your mind, in that moment. First, there was excitement – some part of you believed you were important, in some way. Then, there was elation – God’s voice in your head must mean there is an afterlife. If that is the case, that means this life isn’t all there is. You will get to see your family again, when all is said and done. Finally, there was horror – demons, hell, monsters. It, too, must exist. 

It was a horrifying couple of moments. Up until the Lord’s Prayer shifted into thoughts about an upcoming football game, and you were left even more stunned than you already were. Were it not for the incredibly physical sensation of wings sprouting from your back, you would have believed you were crazy. 

Only, no. You didn’t think that. You heard the thoughts in your head begin to converge with more voices – the football game, a hair appointment, a girl’s first kiss with a boy named Tommy Lee – and you… understood. The wings at your back. The voices in your head. How loud everything was, and how your body suddenly felt so inextricably different. 

You weren’t human. Not anymore, at least. That realization was, of course, the most terrifying thing of all – you knew even then that mutants weren’t exactly welcome. That even in a family of some of the most accepting people, you would be the outlier. You would be… reviled.

And you were particularly unlucky, in that regard. Even as agnostics, even as some of the kindest people you’d ever known, your family didn’t want you. They came home and saw your coal-black wings and recoiled. Your father’s once lively skin shifted into a greyed hue at the sight of you, and your mother’s kind eyes widened in horrified shock. Your siblings screamed. Your cousins and aunts and uncles and grandparents were revolted. 

They removed you from the equation – and within the span of a few short hours, you were alone. On the streets, hiding away in the shadows because you knew how people would look at you. Your unfortunate telepathy didn’t exactly help, either. Especially given the fact that you had no idea how to control it. All you could do was listen. Wait. Cry at how… sad so much of it was.

You could only weep at how lonely your life had become, even given the visage of an angel. There was no God that would answer your desperate prayers. Not a single religion that could offer any solace. And oh, how you begged. How you cried to empty skies asking for some sort of deliverance. Asking for a reason. A sign. Raging on about the irony of your angelic appearance.

That last part had only gone on to inspire you, however. Perhaps it’s the slightest bit strange given all the unkindness the world had shown you, but you then decided to… be better. To be the kindness that you had missed out on. 

It would have been easy, too, to be anything else. To be resentful. Hateful. To be like the mutant they called Magneto, or any of his Brotherhood. Only… no. You chose something different. You looked up to the sky, realizing that there was only an empty void staring back at you.

And you decided to take matters into your own hands. Nobody answered your prayers. No one heard your every plea. No so-called Gods listened as you sobbed into the vacant air. But you were going to take what you were given, and you were going to be the answer you once desired. 

The telepathy became a gift. You could hear the unending, pained thoughts of those around you, and you chose to do something about it. You began to listen. To hear. To understand. You answered those whose prayers otherwise would have received nothing in response. 

You have lost count of how many times you have stepped in. How many you have helped. How many you’ve harmed in the process. You only remember the faces, both fearful and hopeful. Or both in equal measure. You only remember eyes looking on at you with a reverence that is sickening. Gazes holding the belief that you are something more than what you are. 

You remember a young girl’s thoughts once echoing out into the night. Her father was hurting her. He would put his hands on her and her mother. The child prayed for an end to the suffering. For some semblance of relief. The answer to her prayer was a police officer at her door, informing her mother that the father had been found dead a few blocks away. Hearing her thoughts again after that, she seemed… calmer. She was grieving, of course, in her own way. But she understood that the absence of her father meant peace. That his absence meant only brighter days ahead. 

Her voice, once broken and consumed with fear, had become something so much softer, more befitting a little girl. That alone had proved it was all worth it. It proved that you needed to be what the gods refused to be. You needed to be something good. Something that listened.

Which is why, on this night, you perk up as soon as the familiar tone of the Lord’s Prayer sounds through your head like the chime of a dinner bell. 

‘Thy kingdom come, thy will be done.’

The voice is melodic. It carries with it a German accent, lilting with every word. The tone, however, seems desperate. Pained. Everything you had once been, only carrying far more terror. Perhaps if you were only a telepath, it would have been difficult to seek out this voice in your head – but your mutation gifted you with wings. 

Taking to the skies, you begin to soar over Boston’s skyline, eyes roving every single corner. Every single little haven for darkness in search of the faithful individual who prays so fervently to a false idol. God will not answer their prayer – but you will. Perhaps it is what you were made for. 

‘On Earth as it is in heaven.’

In the same voice, uttered in the same desperate intonation, another prayer leaps in alongside the one that is already being spoken. New words. A newer despair. Layered underneath the familiar words.

‘Give us this day our daily bread.’ 

Please, my Lord, if you can hear me– 

Your wings beat faster at the sound, eyes scanning every crevice that may hold what you’re looking for. In the distance, among a sea of thought, you see a lonely and abandoned church. The stained glass glints sadly in the moonlight, and the prayer grows weary. The voice becomes a little more desolate. A bit more… accepting. 

They’re going to kill me–

You blink in the onslaught of wind, eyes tearing up at the cool sweep of it. Listening for some semblance of anger in the prayer, you latch on to what you can – hoping against all odds that this voice finds the will to survive just a little bit longer. Just enough for you to swoop in and save them. You can, you will! The prayer is coming from the church, located somewhere inside, as if the voice had thought it to be a refuge.

The idea only angers you further. God does not linger within that church. He does not listen. He does not care. Still, He does not matter – only the one whose prayer reverberates through your mind on a loop does in this moment. 

With a violent cry, you hurl your feet up and crash your way through the stained glass, shards embedding themselves in your legs, in your wings. The pain is an afterthought when you see what lies before you. Enraged tears well up in your eyes. It is a scene that is horrifically familiar these days. 

A group of men in uniforms. They surround a lone, cowering figure. The one whose prayer you received. At the sound of your entrance, their eyes shoot up to you, and you’re startled by their appearance. Though only for a mere second.

Eyes of yellow-gold, with the coloration of the sunrise glinting off the ocean. Blue skin like that of a twilit sky, shadowed by the darkness of what's been done to them. You know from the moment you see the figure that they are a mutant – and this is only confirmed further by the sight of a collar locked around their neck, red light glowing.

A power inhibitor. You’re unfortunately familiar with that sort of thing. The mutant – a man, by the look of their stature – gazes up at you with eyes like his prayer has been answered. He merely glances at the void-black wings attached to your back, because he seems far more interested in the expression that warps your face. Perhaps it’s anger. It could very well be sadness. Melancholy. Whatever it is, it brings him a small bit of hope. You can see it in his eyes. 

Even as the perpetrators scream, you school your expression. You keep it calm and collected as you swoop in and swiftly steal one of their guns. Then, you lay into them, firing into the night with a reckless abandon, blinded by rage even though you do everything you can not to look the part. Still, you ensure the safety of the strange man by standing in front of him, unfurling your wings to block the line of sight of the ones who hurt him. Keeping him safely tucked away in the darkness behind you. Shrouded in shadows. 

One by one, they fall in droves, though you notice with a small disappointment that no blood blooms beneath their bodies. Tranquilizer guns. There’s very little comfort in knowing that they did not intend to kill this mutant. It was more likely that they meant to experiment on him. Draw his blood. See what makes him tick. It sickens you. It disappoints you further that they are only unconscious rather than dead.

More and more these days, you understand where Magneto is coming from. Why he does what he does. You try not to let it get to you. 

Though, still, the fuckers fall, and you and the mutant behind you remain blessedly unharmed. A bead of sweat trickles down the side of your face as you pant. Harsh breaths tumble from your mouth as you examine the bodies. There are no conscious thoughts that you can hear aside from your own, and aside from that of the man behind you. 

The Lord’s Prayer continues, though it takes on a different tone now. It’s almost blocked out by the barrage of grateful, awed murmurings in that strange lilting tone, but you hear it regardless. You’ve learned after all these years to latch onto the prayers. It feels like what you’re meant to do. You attempt to block out everything else, in favor of latching onto your own helpless confusion – wondering why he keeps thinking it. Why he hasn’t given up.

‘And forgive us our trespasses.’

Your heart thuds as it does its best to settle. Slowly, silently, with an expression you hope shows your good intent, you finally turn around. His eyes meet yours, and the rage within you amplifies tenfold as you witness a rivulet of blood oozing from his forehead. 

‘As we forgive those who trespass against us.’

Brows furrowing, you quickly tear off a patch from the bottom of your shirt as you approach him. You kneel, hands lifting cautiously as he mutters something in German. 

“Ein Engel. Bist du ein Engel?”

You smile softly as you press the fabric to his wound, and his own hand comes up to join yours in applying pressure. His eyes flick back and forth between your own. The desperation is gone, replaced only by awe. You finally notice that he only has two fingers and a thumb on each hand. Two toes on his feet. A tail wooshing back and forth behind him. 

“I’m sorry,” You say delicately, plainly admiring him, “I don’t speak German.”

He smiles, though it's a startled sort of thing. It's shaky. Incomplete. It's an expression you share, for the most part. 

“You…” He begins, breathless. “You saved me.”

Chuckling, you leave him to keep the pressure on his own, hands moving now to the collar around his neck. It’s funny, almost. He looks almost… demonic. Only without the horns. Without the fear factor. He’s more beautiful than anything. 

“I did my best.” You mutter, fiddling with one of the controls. Slowly, ensuring he can easily watch your every movement, you pull a knife from your pocket. “Is it okay if I use this? We should get this thing off.”

“Ja, ja. It’s okay.”

“Alright.” You reply with an attempt at a confident smile. Yes, you’ve done this before. Yes, you’ve succeeded in doing this before. Though, still, there’s always a note of worry, a thought that they’ve changed the technology and installed a failsafe of sorts. One that senses when the collar is being tampered with. You’re afraid he could end up hurt. 

He lets you work, flinching only slightly as you bring the knife up to the device. You move as slowly and as precisely as you can, and silence falls. The only sound within the vast emptiness of the building is your shared breathing. It’s… unsettling. As such, you break the quiet.

“What’s your name?” You question, quickly glancing toward his eyes.

“Kurt. Kurt Wagner.”

“Kurt.” You echo smoothly, testing out the feel of it on your tongue. “It’s nice… to, uh, meet you.”

Despite everything, he chuckles. “I wish it could have been under better circumstances.”

You share his laughter, notching the sharpened end of your blade into one of the cracks of the collar. Kurt quickly pulls away the fabric he holds to examine the blood, though you respond by shoving it back onto the wound. He winces, and you offer a low hum in apology before continuing with the collar.  

“Me too. Just seems like this sort of thing is a little too common these days, huh?”

“Ja.” He says. Then, he looks back at you almost shyly. “What is your name?”

As you answer, you keep your eyes trained onto the red blinking light that stares right back at you. Your name is uttered in a quiet voice, as shyly as he asked his question. People don’t really ask anymore. And you don’t tend to tell them. 

He repeats it in that honeyed accent of his, and you hear the faint murmuring of the Lord’s Prayer once more within the vastness of his thoughts. It would be annoying were it not for the fact that his voice is… strangely soothing. It eases the tremble in your hands, at least. 

‘And lead us not into temptation.’

He says your name once more. “How… How did you find me?”

At your back, you feel the familiar tickle of your wings, the feathers brushing against the sliver of bare skin. They flinch at his question, because it tends to be followed by a slew of more. Are you an angel? Did He send you? Did you hear my prayer? It can be difficult to give people those same disappointing answers time and time again; No. No. Yes, but not for the reason you think.

It can be easier to just let people think you’re an angel. It’s certainly better to let their faith remain assured. To allow them to go on believing that there is a God and he actually cares. It’s… better than the alternative, at least. You know the pain of unanswered prayers. You know the agony of realizing that there is nobody looking out for you.

With a sigh, your knife clicks into place, and the collar comes undone. It falls from his neck.

“I heard you.”

His eyes widen. “Do you… Do you have heightened senses?”

Your sudden laugh shifts into a considering hum. “In a manner of speaking, maybe. But… No. I heard your thoughts.”

“Mein Gebet?” He whispers in barely concealed awe, and you don’t need to speak German to understand what he’s saying. His thoughts were a prayer. A plea. A cry to a God who isn’t listening. He thinks that you were sent, probably. “You… heard my prayer?”

“Your thoughts.” You correct as gently as you can. “You just… happened to be praying.”

His face doesn’t fall as you expect it to. No, instead he looks down to the collar which lays listless on the floor. Then, he disappears in a puff of smoke, the scent of sulfur drifting into your nose.

You're left stunned in his sudden absence, and perhaps a bit disappointed that you’re newly alone. That is until you hear his voice from behind you. You startle, swinging around to give him a considering, half-annoyed glare.

“I can teleport.” He says, finally casting his eyes to the wings behind you. 

Giggling, you stand, allowing your wings to fold inward. “I can see that.”

“What else can you do?” He questions, tilting his head as he regards your own appearance. 

It’s almost funny. A faithful man with the visage of a devil, and a staunch disbeliever with the appearance of an angel. It’s… ironic, is what it is. Almost sad. Still, you shrug, replying with a friendly smile that’s still a little too shaky for your liking.

“I fly.” You murmur. “And I read thoughts. That’s pretty much it, as far as I know.”

He turns, flicking his tail downward. The pointed, demon-like appendage slowly picks up a gun from the ground and lifts it to his waiting hands. When he smiles widely, you spot the pointed glint of his teeth. He can teleport. He has a prehensile tail. And he’s… blue.

“Prehensile tail.” You say. “And you can teleport. Anything else?”

He shakes his head. “Nein. As far as I know.”

Then, he goes quiet, once more examining your wings. Black as the night sky. Forboding as a gnawing abyss. Shyly, slightly embarrassed, you edge your way to a nearby pew to sit down. One of the mutant-hunting bastards lays at your feet, and you prop your feet up on his chest just because you can. Just because he’s a piece of shit and you want him to see the mark of your shoe tread when he wakes up. 

Kurt disappears once more, only to pop back into reality right next to you. The scent of sulfur follows him, but you’ve smelled far worse in your years. Silently, he sits a foot or two away from you, casting his gaze downward to the men on the floor.

“How long do you think they will be asleep?”

You hum, biting your lip as your brows furrow downward. “Dunno. Probably a while. Don’t worry, though. I’ll hear their thoughts if they wake up too soon.”

From the corner of your eyes, you see Kurt blink as he looks back up at you. His tail flicks slowly behind him. Like a cat watching something vaguely entertaining. It brings a hesitant smile to your face, and you turn to look at him.

“I’m sorry they did this to you, Kurt.” You murmur.

He shakes his head. “Sei nicht. Perhaps this was meant to happen, ja?”

Huffing, you gaze listlessly at the large cross hung on the far wall, depicting Jesus Christ in all his tragic glory. You bring one knee up to rest your chin on, keeping your eyes trained on the symbol before you. Sadness flickers in your chest, coupled by a strong wave of resentment.

“Lord works in mysterious ways, huh?” You ask, predicting his thoughts.

He nods, though a sympathetic glimmer lights up his eyes. “He does, Engel. I believe He does.”

You can’t help the bitter question that leaps from your mouth. “Then why didn’t He help you tonight?”

You regret it as soon as you say it – because this isn’t what you do. You don’t kick people while they’re down. You don’t deny their own beliefs, or question their faith. Even as you struggle with your own. Even as the resentment becomes too much to bear. There is no part of you that believes in a god, but you will not disregard the belief of others just because of your own abandonment. 

Still, Kurt does not seem offended. If anything, his eyes shift into something so deeply understanding.

“Perhaps He put me on your path.” He echoes your name with a soft tone, and it’s the first time in years that you’ve heard it uttered with such kindness. “So that you would find me, so that I could find you.”

“It’s a nice thought.” You concede, looking back up to the ruined stained glass. It litters the floor, shards glimmering a whole myriad of colors.

Kurt pauses. He allows silence to fall. Allows you to recede into your thoughts. Until he speaks once more, voice taking on a hopeful tone.

“Do you have anywhere to go?”

Your brows furrow. “Do you?”

He smiles, and it’s a gentle sight. It soothes the unending ache in your chest. The bitter caress of loneliness. You look into his eyes and allow your thoughts to meld with his own. You see a mansion. A man with kind eyes in a strange, floating wheelchair. Children running around, laughter echoing in the hallways. You see a woman with a white streak in her hair, with green eyes and strong arms. The thoughts are shrouded in a feeling of safety, of comfort, of home. All the things you haven’t known in years.

“Ja. I do. I have friends that could help you, Engel. If you need it.”

All the feelings in his head, the thoughts of those people he considers his family. It’s… almost too much to bear. Tears well in your eyes as you think of years spent hiding away in the shadows, only seeing the light when a desperate prayer sprung forth through the chaos of thought. A home sounds nice. Too good to be true, certainly, but nice.

“Maybe I do need help.” You murmur, eyes wide as you stare at him. Gold stares right back at you.

He smiles, and it’s probably the most beautiful thing you’ve seen in years.

“Ich hatte recht. Come with me, Engel.”

He holds out his hand, and you take it as hope blooms in your chest for the first time in decades. 

You don’t exactly know what you were expecting, coming out here today. Sure, a lot of messed up shit goes on in Los Angeles, which means it’s a given that superheroes would be out and about – but it’s noon on an overcast Sunday, and you’re not exactly dressed in your Sunday best.

It’s laundry day for you, which means old, raggedy clothes and hair thrown up into the simplest protective style you can muster. The only issue, of course, is that you ran out of laundry detergent. It was horrible planning on your part, really. You should have kept a better track of how much you had left, but you were rather focused on other things. You wouldn’t have come out today if it wasn’t an emergency, too, but you have a job interview tomorrow and the clothes you’re currently wearing are the only moderately clean clothes you have.

An old hoodie, some shorts that are borderline scraps at this point, and a bra that’s far too small for you these days. That’s all you have. Maybe, on literally any other day, you would not have cared. Wouldn’t have made a big fuss about it.

But today is not that day. Waterboy, in the literal sopping wet flesh, is standing in the grocery aisle just before you, his green eyes roving along the selection before him. There’s a part of you that wants to turn tail and run – your heart is beating out of your chest because you’re standing in front of your hero – but there’s a far bigger part that wants to stay. That wants, at the very least, to say something to him. To ask for a photo (damn, you left your phone in the car), or maybe an autograph, even (you have an old grocery list and a pen in your pocket, so that would suffice).

It takes a moment, but you muster up the courage to say hello. Your voice is gentle, quiet, like you’re afraid you may scare him off. Waterboy is known for his skittishness, after all. Known for his… not-exactly-heroic demeanor.

“Excuse me?” You murmur, brows upturned.

The tall, lanky man before you startles before he spins around to face you. You can’t help the smile that brightens your expression now that you’re face-to-face with him. He’s prettier in person. Taller, too.

His face has that ever-present visage of concern that you’ve seen in the media. Like he’s ashamed to take up space. He has that look like he’s expecting you to usher him away so you can grab what you need. Though, he’s clearly not expecting the grin you sport, nor the way you look up at him, eyes wide and doe-like (that part is on purpose, just a bit).

“Y-Yes, yeah. Hello– uhm, hi. Did… Did you need something?” He questions through his thick stutter. Your smile only grows wider.

“Uhm, O-only your autograph, if you’re willing?”

His green eyes widen, and a bead of water drips down his face. “My, uhm– You want… Autograph? My autograph?”

You nod hastily, practically vibrating with excitement. “Yes, please. You’re my hero, so… I-If you’re busy, that’s okay, I just figured I would–”

“Busy, no!” He interrupts. “Not– I’m not busy. Y-You… uhm, I’ll glad–gladly sign… uh, give you an autograph!”

You giggle in elation as you reach into your pocket in search of that pen and the grocery list. Waterboy stands patiently before you as you do so, twiddling his thumbs and gazing nervously into the empty end of the aisle you both stand in. There’s a shy sort of smile on his face, and you wonder if he’s ever received this kind of attention before. If anyone’s ever asked him for this – or if they’ve looked on at him with a kind smile and a doe-eyed stare that can’t hide the clear attraction.

Because, yes, let’s be honest here, you’re fucking attracted to him. A tall, lanky man that can’t stand still – that’s your type.

You come up short when you reach the pen, only to discover that the crinkled paper you need is missing, your pockets void of any sort of old grocery list. You curse inwardly, smile falling marginally – until your brain is set alight with a new idea. It’s a risky one, and it may be a little bold for what you’re used to, but you miss a hundred percent of the shots you don’t take.

You’re taking this shot. You’re standing before your literal hero and he’s even hotter in person. Damn it, you’re doing this.

“Oh, shoot.” You say, pulling out the lone pen. “I don’t have anything for you to sign…”

“O-Oh, that’s… that’s okay.” Waterboy murmurs. “Maybe we could… picture? Take a picture?”

“Don’t have my phone on me.” You tell him. “But, maybe I have a bit of an idea?”

You hand him the pen, and he takes it without question. Slightly nervous, you spare a look to the empty environment around you – void of people, void of any potential judgement. With a shaky smile, you look at Waterboy – right as you pull the hem of your hoodie up to reveal your chest. Confined in a bra that’s far too small, no less. Your chest heaves with a tremulous sigh, cheeks warming significantly.

“You could just… sign right here?”

Waterboy’s eyes are as wide as you’ve ever seen them. Though the blackness of his pupils nearly overtakes the forest green of his irises. His gaze moves up and down – from your eyes down to your lips, from your face down to your toes, before he finally settles on your chest. His cheeks are painted a deep russet red, his shoulders are tense and hunched upward in surprise. His mouth opens and then closes, before opening once more. All the while, you stare on with a smirk.

“You–You want… to sign your… I-I, uhm. Okay. Yes, yeah, okay.”

Gently, his hand comes up to your chest, pen held aloft. You bite your lip as the pressure of his signature comes upon you (not the only thing you want coming upon you, if you’re entirely honest). As he writes his name down, you get another idea.

“You could also write down your number, if you’d like.”

He giggles, eyes wide, and sweat or water or whatever drips down his face. There’s a damp feeling against your chest – him leaving his mark in more ways than one. The red on his cheeks grows darker, the heat biting deeper, and you have to hold back the squeal of excitement as you look down to witness him writing down a number just under his name. Once he finishes, he stands straight up and hands your pen back to you – it’s coated in a thick layer of droplets. You stick it back in your pocket.

“Think I’m gonna get this tattooed.” You announce with a wide smile. As you look back up at him, shoving the hem of your hoodie back down, you bat your lashes. “My hero. Thank you.”

“Thank– Thank you. No, thank you. I-I… yeah.” He chuckles, pupils still blown.

With a sweet smile, you turn to make your way to the detergent aisle. “I’ll call you!”

“C-Call, yeah… Call me. Alright!" He calls after you.

There’s a ring waiting back home. It’s tucked away in his dresser, somewhere beneath his least-used sweatpants – the ones that are a little too tight for him to fit in. It’s nice, the ring. He likes to think it is. It was Rogue and Storm that went with him to get it, who offered their advice because they know you almost as well as he does. 

It’s a rose gold coloration. It’s dainty. Simple. Something unlikely to get caught because Kurt knows how often you seem to get your hands dirty. Typically it stems from the garden you tend to, though more often than not it comes from your powers.

His own goddess of nature. Of life. Of soil and trees and fields upon fields of flowers. Storm commands the skies, Magneto holds reign over magnetism, but you – the earth itself bends to your will. The trees and the roots that stretch for miles heed your every whim. They call your name, and you so effortlessly answer every single time. Without fail.

Kurt Wagner is a devout man. He believes in the Lord’s plan. He mutters a prayer every night before he cuddles up next to you in bed, because he believes in the meaning of it. He believes his words are heard. Outside of that, he offers many a small prayer throughout the stretching days – for the mutants across the world whose lives are nothing but pain, for the humans who oppose his very existence, and for everything that lies between.

He prays for you, too, when he believes that no one can hear him. When his mind is silent save for the sweetened caress of his thoughts of you. He doesn’t pray to God in those moments. He simply… prays. He thinks of your eyes and how they glow in the low lamplight, your smile and how it widens every time you see him, your face and your hair and the way you always seem to have dirt caked under your fingernails. He prays that you will stay the same through the years – even as your hair greys and your skin sags and he loves you through every moment of it. He prays that you never lose your shine. That even when the two of you are breaching a century of years spent alive, your smile will always be waiting at the end.

Now, he prays that you’re alive. He prays that your body hasn’t sunken into the waiting soil, that it’s still intact despite the onslaught of Sentinels. Kurt hopes against all odds that he’ll see your beautiful smile again, that he’ll witness the way you speak to the trees and the grass once more, that he’ll finally get to put that waiting ring on your finger.

That he’ll get to marry you after a lifetime spent loving you, that he’ll get to call you his wife and love you for a thousand lifetimes more. 

You can hold your own in a fight. Kurt knows that better than anyone. It was jarring, really, to see how easily you went down – to witness the giant mechanical hand of that damned Sentinel wave you away like you were nothing, only for you to end up somewhere that Kurt’s golden eyes can’t see you. He doesn’t see a body, for which he’s only slightly grateful. He doesn’t see blood, either, but then again he and the other X-Men are too busy trying to bring this thing down. It’s not like they can look for you.

Kurt has already screamed your name into the open air several times. To the point that his throat feels raw and his voice cracks under the weight of his fear. Storm’s lightning does nothing to the hulking figure. Gambit’s card tricks cannot penetrate its outer shell. Wolverine can’t get close enough for his adamantium claws to make much of a difference. And Kurt? He’s far too occupied with the thought of losing you to focus properly.

He sent himself and Rogue careening into the side of the Sentinel’s head because he kept searching the battlefield for any sign of you. For any sign that the earth cradles you, that the soil has heard your call and the trees lie in wait to strike.

He wants to beg Jean to search for your mind, but she’s trying to hold the robot back and keep it in place. She’s occupied. Cyclops sends wave after wave of pure energy straight towards its armor, and even from a distance, Kurt can see the bead of sweat trickling down the side of his face. Everyone is exhausted. Storm’s gone half-limp in midair, and Rogue keeps trying to stay as close as she possibly can to Gambit, who himself bleeds from a nasty cut to his forehead.

Everything has gone so very wrong, and all Kurt can do is beg his Lord to ensure that you’re still breathing. The footsteps of the Sentinel echo, and the heavy vibrations of it spread through the ground. Soil is kicked up around its feet. Grass is overturned. Flowers are crushed beneath its impossible weight. Kurt cringes at every instance – another reminder that he can’t seem to find you, that you could be broken half a mile away and he won’t be able to reach you.

This robot just won’t seem to quit. It’s already taken so much energy to even attempt to subdue it. Kurt wonders if Cyclops will order a retreat, if Jean will speak through their minds and guide them back to the Blackbird in that gentle tone of hers. Whatever choice they make, Kurt will remain regardless.

You are still here. You, his love, his heart, the other half of his soul. He could never leave without you.

He hears the others screaming at each other as he pops into reality, attempting to drive one of his swords into a groove of the Sentinel’s head. They’re all searching like he is, their own gazes frantically zipping around to spot the familiar forest green of your suit. Storm searches through the skies, still sending gusts of wind to attempt to knock the robot off balance. Cyclops speaks through his earpiece, calling your name with a concerned edge to his tone. Wolverine raises his nose to the air, waiting to get a whiff of your familiar, earthy scent. 

No one finds anything, and you don’t respond even as the team calls you. Kurt can hear in Scott’s tone that he’s considering falling back. Regrouping would likely be the best option. Trask has evidently done something to his robots to make them practically impervious to everything the team throws at them. They need to think this through. Need to come up with a plan.

They can’t leave. You’re still here – and you’re not dead, because you can’t be. Because Kurt hasn’t had his chance to pledge himself to you, hasn’t lived a life of laying against your chest and listening to your heartbeat. Because he isn’t yet old and grey and you’re not at his side with matching wrinkles and a tired mind. He hasn’t given himself to you in his entirety, and he burns for you with every waking moment and you can’t be dead because the thought alone is an impossibility.

You’re a goddess amongst mutants. His deity of life and nature and all things good. If you were dead, the trees would die with you and the grass would wilt away – and yet everything is so green and the flowers still bloom under the sunlight. His goddess, his love, his entire life waits for him somewhere in the dense fields of grass, if not in the shadowed forests. Unconscious. Bleeding. Injured, but not dead because dead is the last thing you could be.

This can’t be real. It can’t be.

Kurt closes his eyes as he pops up next to Logan on the ground. He settles his feet in the grass and focuses on the soil beneath his feet. Finally, he sends a verbal prayer out into the air. To you, to God, to the trees themselves. Anything that will bring you home.

“Please, please, let her be alive–”

The Sentinel ceases in its onslaught. Kurt’s eyes snap open, gold glowing bright against the flash of sunlight. Storm stops, still in the air – the wind stills alongside her. She’s staring wide-eyed off into the distance as the clouds she had been beginning to conjure fall away. Rogue flies up next to her, her own green eyes squinting against the light, and everything stills as Kurt hears the words that the Sentinel speaks.

“Omega-level threat detected.”

His heart stops, because in that moment, the trees begin to shudder in awe. The grass trembles beneath his feet. The earth has called out, and now its deity has come to answer. Logan takes a long breath inward, eyes closed, and a wicked smile breaks out on his face – because he knows. Kurt can see it in the man's eyes, in that satisfied glint lingering just behind the relief. It’s you.

The Wolverine can smell you on the air better than anyone else, but the scent that rises finally dawns on Kurt – because, yes, it is you. It’s flowers and grass and tree sap and soil ready for sowing. 

The smile that breaks across Kurt’s face is so wide that it almost hurts. Relief hardened by love settles in his chest, and he throws the wretched abomination a glare for even daring to take you down.

The Sentinel’s head shifts as it seemingly begins its scan of the situation, protocols within protocols failing to prepare it for what is coming. Kurt sighs as roots sprout beneath the robot’s feet, grappling it to the ground. Leaves begin to fall from trees. The grass turns as if regarding the approaching figure. Almost kneeling in supplication. 

Kurt finally sees you waiting on the treeline. Blood coats your forehead, but his concern is washed away by the sheer force of will shining in your beautiful eyes. You’re tense. Trembling with anger as your eyes scan the field – once alive, buzzing with possibility, now ruined under the weight of battle. Bright green leaves circle around you, and he hears the echo of a thousand trees groaning at once. 

The roots at the Sentinel’s feet stiffen, and the entire team moves at once. Save for Kurt, who remains where he stands, staring at you in awe and relief and worry. He hears the distant sounds of Storm’s thunder and Wolverine’s claws, the yell reverberating from Scott’s throat – it’s triumphant. You’re alive, you’re alive, and you’re breathing and you’re so beautiful in the dappled sunlight and Kurt wants nothing more than to kneel at your feet and beg for your hand in marriage. 

But first, the X-Men have a robot to dismantle. He finally turns to do his duty, making good of the opportunity you have given all of them.

Your roots have spread upwards, wrapping around the Sentinel and creeping through the grooves of its exoskeleton. Flowers grow from the vines as they circle around its arms. Your power is so strong, so commanding that the robot cannot break away from the force of it. Roots twist around its legs, tying them together, and finally, the Sentinel tumbles.

Kurt can feel your discomfort from across the battlefield as the robot crushes the grass and the flowers beneath its gargantuan weight. He can feel your anger at the destruction that this thing has wrought. He watches enraptured as you surge forward, wines wrapped securely around your body, and he can’t stand the distance between the two of you any longer.

He teleports next to you as you approach the fallen Sentinel. His hand presses to the small of your back when you give him a gentle smile, eyeing the lines of worry on his forehead. Blood oozes from a deep cut along your hairline, and Kurt realizes just how close he came to losing you. Still, there are leaves trapped in the mess of your hair, and blood coats most of your face – and you are so, so incredible.

He’d marry you right now, at this very moment if he could. Instead, he watches as you raise your hand, and the roots and vines tighten at your command.

The Sentinel keeps spouting the same drivel on repeat – ‘terminate, terminate, terminate’ – but you stand tall. Strong. Your head tilts, almost curious, before you give the hulking heap of junk a resolute smile.

“Let nature claim you.”

And the vines wrapped around its head crush it until the only sounds it can make are broken words spoken in a newly dead language. Your hand waves, and vines and flowers bloom along its corpse. It will not rot, Kurt realizes, but its skeleton will make a good home for the worms writhing around in the soil. For the birds chirping in the trees and the spiders spinning their webs. 

The components of its body creak as a tree sprouts from its head – and the X-Men are shielded from the sunlight by the shade you have casted. 

With a satisfied grin, you turn to him.

“I’m sorry if I worried you, love.”

Kurt collapses into you, his lips latching onto yours as if you are the air he needs to breathe. You squeak but allow the gesture nonetheless, and he revels in the feeling of your hands tangling in his hair, in the gentle thump of your heartbeat against his chest. In the warmth of you – so wonderful and alive. 

“Mein Schatz." He breathes into your mouth, inhaling the sweet scent of you. Distantly, he registers the quiet chatter of the team, but they are the last thing on his mind. “Meine Leibe. I thought I lost you.”

You giggle, pressing another kiss to his waiting mouth. “I’m still here. A little worse for wear, but… here.” 

“Ich liebe dich. Du bist mein Leben.” He says, knowing you understand him. You’ve long since learned for him. He watches, so ridiculously in love as your cheeks heat at his words. “You are perfect, woman.”

“Says you, elf. I’m glad you’re okay. No bumps or bruises?”

“Nein. I’m alright, Liebe. But you – we need to take care of this.” He gestures to the oozing wound on your forehead, brows furrowing as you smile in response. 

“It looks worse than it is, Kurt. I’ll be fine, it probably doesn’t even need stitches.”

He admires the determined glint in your eyes as he attempts to wipe away a fresh wave of blood. His touch shifts downward to your cheek, where his hand inevitably comes to rest. You lean into the contact, so unbothered by the mess along your body, giving him a look so deep and profound that his next few words fly from his mouth without a thought.

“Heirate mich.”

You blink, startled and only the slightest bit confused. Kurt fumbles at his ill-timed proposal, stuttering against the words he attempts to speak. His heart thuds violently in his chest, and he is soothed only by the way in which you bring your hands up to cup his cheeks. Your eyes are bright. Wide and unblinking, shining with a wave of tears.

“What was that, love?” You ask, already partly knowing the answer. 

It’s the hesitant smile on your face that gives him the courage to repeat himself. Your thumbs rub back and forth along the arches of his cheeks.

“Marry me.”

You grin, a bubbly laugh spilling from your mouth. Tears begin to flow from your eyes as you press a kiss to his forehead, and then his cheeks, and then his nose, ending happily at his lips. He continues, words a mere whisper in the shared air between you. His breath and yours.

“Ich liebe dich. Ich habe dich immer geliebt. I have a ring waiting back home.” His chuckle is watery, softened by joyful tears. “It’s yours. I’m yours, if you’ll have me.”

“Fuck.” You curse lowly, a whisper under your breath. “Oh my god. Fucking obviously, Kurt Wagner. Of course I’ll marry you.”

He fucking cackles, his arms wrapping around you completely – and the two of you teleport several feet away from the rest of the team. The trees sigh. The grass settles. The ground below him giggles in acknowledgement. He presses kiss after kiss after kiss to your beautiful, messy face. He ignores the blood. He savors the dirt because it’s you. He doesn’t bother trying to pluck the leaves and stray flowers from your hair, because he doesn’t really want to. 

You’ve never looked more perfect than you do now. Alive, breathing. Dirtied with the evidence of your fight to survive. 

“This is not how I was going to ask.” He clarifies. “I had a plan, Liebling.”

“I’m sure you did, baby.” You reply with a giddy smile. “But this is perfect. I love you. Fuck, I really love you.”

His breath hitches as he pulls you in for yet another kiss. His love, his life, his future bride.