#polar eclipse

Bodies At Rest by FortySevens

Summary: They can’t keep the car and they can’t drive straight back to HQ.

After Lorna and Reed escape the Sentinel Services transport to a hell where they won't even call her Polaris, Lorna, Marcos, John and the Struckers steal a minivan and take the long way back to HQ. There's some care-taking, some reuniting, and a whole ton of sass.

The Fic (on AO3):

They can’t keep the car and they can’t drive straight back to HQ.

Sure, Sentinel Services isn’t riding their ass right now—likely regrouping, and they’re going to have to be ready to handle one pissed off Agent Turner (what is his deal, really?) trying to come down on them—but no matter how nice the car is, they can’t afford to take any chances by doing something so incredibly stupid like bringing it back to base.

It’s too nice for them, anyway.

Their driver has no business at the wheel since she’s halfway to tears and spends way more time than Lorna is comfortable with looking at Mr. Prosecutor like he’s the second coming of Jesus Christ and peppering him with questions about his bleeding knee, one hand on the steering wheel and the other wrapped around his hand over the center console like a husband and wife taking a Sunday drive through the country. But she somehow manages to get them to an out of the way park-n-ride lot a few miles away from the abandoned warehouses without crashing, so bonus points for her resiliency, or whatever it is that gets them there without making a scene.

Lorna and Marcos strip the car of anything that could be of use to them, including an extra tank of gas they found in the trunk, an emergency kit that Mr. Prosecutor’s lady friend immediately co-opts, and some comm. tech that may or may not be of use to them, but either way will serve as scrap for Marcos’ next art project (“Training,” he always insists when she finds him in the vault late at night, hands glowing around yet another dilapidated safe-deposit box. “Training my ass,” Lorna cackles like she does every time, before she grabs his warm hands and drags him back to bed to test the limits of John’s ever-present tracking abilities, sorry not sorry.), and even a couple energy bars that were stashed in the glove compartment, while John digs through the engine block for any trackers and crushes the ones he finds into glittery, metallic sand.

The minivan they settle on stealing looks to about a decade old and doesn’t have the gas mileage of Sentinel Services’ fancy hybrid SUV, but it does have a cracked window and a thick layer of dust and tree pollen covering the windshield and roof, so its owner probably isn’t going to come looking for it anytime soon. They probably aren’t going to miss it, either.

So, they’re doing them a favor.

Yeah, let’s go with that.

Marcos—who hasn’t let go of her hand since she broke herself and Mr. Prosecutor out of the prison transport, not that she’s bothered to let him go either—helps her into the back row so Strucker and she-who-must-be-the-Missus, if that ring on her finger is any indication, can take advantage of the extra room between the captain’s chairs in the middle row and get a better look at the holes Lorna ripped into his leg.

She can’t say she feels bad about it.

After all, he did offer.

Lorna Dane and Marcos Diaz. Before, during, after the war, and everywhere in between.

50 one-word prompts for 50 more-than-one-sentence drabbles.

READ ON AO3

Part One of Five

15 Touch

Marcos’ touch has always been warmer than a normal human’s, but he runs especially hotter in the hours after he uses his powers.

It’s a huge bonus on those long winter nights when it storms so bad that the power goes out and he and Lorna have to curl up in their bed under the few blankets they have yet to give away to the other mutant refuges who are waiting for transport to safer havens than the ones in Georgia.

But the night after Marcos brings her home after almost losing her to the black hole of Sentinel Service’s custody?

He runs hot.

Marcos runs so hot his hands almost burn as they press against Lorna’s skin, mapping the new slight curve of her abdomen. On their bed, the auroras glow around them through the thin tank top Lorna wears to sleep in, and the lights reflect off the glass covering the painting above their bed, making it look like the lights are coming from that, rather than from them.

Rolling onto her side, Lorna presses her lips against Marcos’ shoulder and clutches his hand in both of hers.

She won’t be parted from in again, not if they don’t have to be.

It’s easier said than one.

But—there’s nothing she’d rather fight for more.

lorna: lots of girls are into mutants

lorna: there are other tough chicks