@magicdumbass

It felt like a punch in the gut. The words themselves had been harmless. Gentle in a way that should have warmed her Rogue up to talk about her family — about Mystique. About Jean. About Scott. It was supposed to be an inspirational thing, to reaffirm that Rogue had chosen her family and that was every bit as valid as the one she had been born with. (Not that Rogue could claim to know her parents — outside of Aunt Carol, Rogue had a giant question mark to decorate her past. And her own chosen distance by going by another name instead. Leaving her family name behind. Leaving Anna Marie behind. The only ones using her name being Erik. Remy. Her mother.) 

“Wanda,” Rogue said her name in a hushed tone, not quite meeting her eyes. Her gaze distant — as far away as Rogue could be. (Another planet perhaps... another universe to escape the pain.) “Tell me that ain’t somethin’ ya think about doin’.”  Rogue scrubbed her hands over her face and exhaled. “No family will want ya t’ die for ‘em. Not the real kind anyway.” Rogue never wanted that. And yet, all she had was this grief of people doing that over and over again. 

It was unpredictable, moments like this one. Danny never knew with any kind of certainty what might set him off, never knew when to expect it. Today, he was just riding the bus after having stayed out a little too long, hoodie in his lap and bandanna tucked into his pocket. He could have called his driver, he knew, but he always felt anxious doing it after having been out with the Fist, as if someone might put two and two together. The bus seemed safer.

Until they hit a bump that shook the seat and the air got too thin to breathe.

Danny’s chest felt tight, and he didn’t realize what the wetness on his cheeks was until the person sitting beside him leaned in to quietly ask after him. Danny gripped his knee tightly, pressing bruises into his skin through his pants as he tried to ground himself. “No,” he said a beat too quickly, bringing a hand up to scrub across his face. It wasn’t snow melting against his cheeks or blood dripping from the cut in his forehead, the way his addled mind had assumed at first. It was coming from his eyes. He clenched his jaw tightly. “I’m --- I’m sorry. I’m just, um...” What excuse could he go with here? What could he say? There was nothing sensible about this. “I’m sorry. Um, can you... What’s your name?” Maybe talking would help.

@magicdumbass

A bitter truth that would have been better served with a chaser of vodka — or at least something close to it. Vodka would likely hurt less than the implications… but whatever it was that had sparked this in Wanda, it wasn’t something that could be washed away with a few shots of top-shelf booze and a night pretending to be anything but what they were. Not that either of them were big on parties, but Zatanna had found them to be a blessing in disguise — a brilliant distraction and loud music so that when a conversation dipped into something like this… it could be easily forgotten.

But instead, they were sitting in a strange quiet, Zatanna’s eyes closed as she nodded her head. She had never claimed to be a hero, not properly at least, she was barely suited to be among the Justice League when it had been around, and her work involved some of the world’s most questionable characters. People that her friends couldn’t stomach but that Zee didn’t blink twice at because dealing with demons and curses and the things that went bump in the night? That was just another Tuesday.

@magicdumbass​

Wanda had come wandering back to the tower and knowing what had happened to Wanda the last time she had been here, Sharon wondered if it was because she felt drawn here — or if she felt obligated to be here? Or was it a need to belong to something? (Or was Sharon simply reading too much into it.) Propping up her head on her fist, Sharon leaned into her desk in her new office. “It’s quiet for now,” Sharon offered, “But in a few weeks, I’m sure this place will be...” The home it had been before? Filled with people and life and — it would be full again. And with Tony holding the place up and Sharon readily there, it wouldn’t end up a quiet shell again. “But something tells me that it wasn’t the quiet you were seeking,” she commented thoughtfully. “What’s on your mind, Wanda? Are you okay?”

She was fidgeting, tapping her finger against her leg in a way that told Miguel she was nervous, uncertain. He wasn’t good with people. Dana was the one who used to know what someone was thinking based on their body language alone, used to lean over and whisper the answers into Miguel’s ears, and he wished with a fierce desperation that she was here now but she wasn’t. Dana was dead, Miguel was alone, and the girl sitting alone on the bench was fidgeting. 

He’d heaved a quiet sigh to himself before going over, asked her if she was all right in a tone he was sure betrayed just how uncertain he was, and her answer left him feeling no more clarity than he’d had watching her from a distance. He paused for a moment, shifting. “Is the person you’re waiting for someone you want to see,” he asked lowly, “or someone you’d rather avoid? Because if it’s the latter... I’m just saying, I can help.”