golden & gilded

He leans back in his own chair, keeping a careful watch on her and the rest of the bar. He wants to believe her, wants to trust that whatever she’d done up there in his head wasn’t invasive…but Tierney isn’t what someone would call, trusting. It takes a great force of will to swallow past the lump in his throat. He wants to tell her something but he knows who she is and her knowing him? Could lead to some terrible things. After a long, long, moment he speaks again. “My loyalties lie with the Syndicate As they have for the past twenty some odd years. They are the bulk of my clientele. I was not lying when I said I followed my employers.” He clears his throat. “I think telling you any more than that would be a bad idea. For the both of us.”

He takes a long drink of his whiskey, relishing in the heavy burn as it slides down his throat. The clink of his glass on the table feels definite. “I’m choosing to trust that you didn’t pull anything out of my head of use.” He considers it a high honor, though he won’t tell her that. He likes her too much, the months of quiet coffee conversation has done a lot to soften him. The last thing he wants to believe is that she’d been using him. “You’ve never struck me as an outright liar in the time I’ve known you. Take that as you wish.”

Believe it or not, I don’t actually want to hurt you. Once again, Abigail rolls her eyes. “Believe it or not, Tierney, I can’t see you hurting me either. No matter how scary you apparently think you are, I do know you. Maybe not everything, but enough. I’m confident of that.” She takes another sip of her drink, gathering her thoughts, the war of feelings in her chest like a hive of wasps. “And I’m not underestimating you either. Similar to how I’ve never struck you as an ‘outright liar’-- thank you so much for that, by the way-- you’ve never struck me as an innocent kitten either. I’m sure you’re quite terrifying when you need to be.” The sarcasm isn’t quite necessary, but something in the way he’s acting, all sharp and tough like she’s suddenly become some stranger, rubs her the wrong way. Abigail knows her sniping like this isn’t going to get them anywhere either, but. Ugh.

A bad idea. For the both of us. She holds back a frustrated sigh. “God, you’re difficult. It was a 50-50 chance that you’d be part of the Syndicate, you know. But I guess that’s something.” 

Despite her irritation, she knows that she needs to be more careful with him. At the end of the day she does care about Tierney, dearly even, and wouldn’t regret his loss. The thought alone makes her wants to move forward, extend a hand again, but she remembers how well that went over last time so she abstains. It really is like dealing with a specific kind of hurt animal, as likely to flee as to strike. Right now, in this most delicate of situations, she knows to approach with caution, or risk losing his friendship completely. 

“Look. Tierney.” Abigail puts her hands flat on the table, an open gesture. “I know we’ve both made some... regretful choices today. Lashed out. And I can tell from how you’ve clammed up that you think this is the end for our friendship. But I don’t see why it has to be a big deal.” She leans back, mirroring his posture, as she searches his face. “All healthy relationships have their boundaries. We don’t need to bring work into this, if it would mean losing something good.”

“  With a strong emphasis on art that relates to the US Latinx experience, the African diaspora, Latin America, and the Caribbean, the Pérez draws its inspiration in this endeavor from Miami’s rich cultural diversity and unique position at the crossroads of the Americas.  ”

Location: Rooftop bar, Downtown Miami

Status: closed ( @cosmlc​)

Abigail hasn’t pulled out all the stops for the evening per se, but she’s come stylishly close. 

Her outfit-- deep green blazer, silk blouse unbuttoned one button past polite company, hair loose and tumbling, and no makeup apart from a rich wine lipstick-- straddles the line between sophisticated and debauched. She arrived to the meeting early, as usual, giving herself time to compose herself in her new environment, mold it into the scene she desires it to be. She orders a crisp Manhattan and a few small plates, olives and bits of cheese and the like, and grabs a two-person table overlooking the sparkling harbor, and the dark ocean beyond. Crossing one leg over the other, Abigail settles in, purposefully not checking her phone. When her guest arrives, she plans to be caught gazing out at the lights of Miami at night, not checking her texts.

It’s a cozy place, upscale but not stifling so, tying into the effortless-chic look she’s been working to build. If the Kings are going to establish themselves in Miami, they’re going to do it in style. Chicago had been snowy and scholarly, peacoats and heels tapping down long museum hallways; Miami, though, is sexier, flashier, and definitely more monied-- less Cézanne, Picasso, and Seurat, more Art Basel. The move had cost her a prestigious museum position and the security deposit on her condo, but with their new start comes new opportunities, and she plans to take advantage of every last one of them.

Abigail’s hands were soft, as they should be. Kiara was meant to do the heavy lifting, her hands scared from being split over and over on jaws and walls and pesky King problems.Abigail always touched her as if she were something delicate, and it ached, because Kiara had never had the chance to be fragile. She wondered what it would be like to properly fall apart in front of someone else.

Kiara couldn’t help but smile almost sadly at her desperate assertion. But it wasn’t because she thought Abigail wouldn’t be able to; no, Kiara was more than certain Abigail would do exactly as she promised. It was more that Kiara was so focused on keeping her safe, that giving Abigail her burdens seemed counter intuitive.

Again as she gently curled her fingers around Abigail’s, she felt that age old tension strung up between them. But this was not the moment Kiara took the other in her arms and kissed her; there would be no grand declaration before she disappeared into the night. It wasn’t the right time. Kiara had a feeling there would never be an appropriate moment for them.

“There are things you shouldn’t have to handle for me,” Kiara said gently. “I wouldn’t ask you to stand between me and my mistakes. Do you know what it would do to me if you were hurt?” she asked seriously, looking down at their hands to escape the heat and fervor in Abigail’s eyes.

Abigail doesn’t know what to do. The realization hits her like a tonne of bricks, the unfamiliarity of it, of being stripped of her sureness. The quick confidence that got her what she wants-- and if she doesn’t get it, well, she didn’t really want it that much. Except, right now, in this too-familiar bedroom, she really wants Kiara. And she has the feeling she’s about to lose her entirely.

There’s a feeling in Abigail’s head like fire and she doesn’t know what horrible contortion her face is doing, for once can’t control the feelings playing over her features, what must be visible for the whole world to see. “What does should or shouldn’t have to do with any of it? I want to do it. Isn’t that enough?” Abi knows her hands are too tight around Kiara’s, and she wishes she could loosen them, treat Kiara as sweetly as she always deserves, but she needs the lifeline right now. 

She flung up her head and smiled. “I can pretend I am if you want me to,” she flashed a grin, leaned into her elbow in the sand, and winked. She lay on her side as if trying to seduce Abigail. “Hadn’t thought you would recognise me,” she opted. “Though, as sparkling a personality as mine, how could you.”

Truth was, when Abigail choose her loyalty over friendship, Luca had been hurt.

When Luca winks at her, Abigail feels a muscle in her face twitch. She pokes her in the side with her sandal another time for good measure. “Of course I recognize you. You’re only the least stealthy hitman this side of the Atlantic. How long can you have been in Miami, and already running around like a lunatic...” She shakes her head.

And then it’s gone. He reacts on instinct, using his one hand to bring a table knife to press against her throat and the other to hold her in her chair. He’s deadly serious now, the time for covering up his general sense of unease is over. He doesn’t want to hurt her, it’s the last thing he wants, but old habits die hard. “I didn’t lie.” His voice is low, and he leans across the table so he can be sure he hears him.

“I followed my clients to Miami. It was a sudden an unexpected move. I am a highly trained individual with a skill set my clients hire me specifically for.” He growls. “But you probably already know that now, don’t you?” Her reaction is enough to tell himself that maybe she hadn’t known before now. Hadn’t used those powers of hers to figure him out, spy on him. It…It isn’t nearly as relieving as it should be. “I was as honest with you as you were with me, Abigail.” Another beat, the adrenaline is no longer beating in his ears, his nerves no longer feel like they’re on fire. With the small wave of his right hand the knife lowers back to the table. He hasn’t let her go, not yet. “Do not ever touch me again. Understood?”

Abigail can’t help herself. She flinches at the knife pressed against her neck, the smallest tick of movement in her throat, before she can regain her control. She stares Tierney down, face colder than it’s ever been, a mask of calm. I didn’t lie. The words, the knife, it makes the heat in her blood boil harder, fury and adrenaline mixing into the most dangerous kind of cocktail. She’s about to do something unwise when he finally lets the knife float away. She notes it in her periphery, filing the information away for later, but right now all she sees is him.

The second the knife is flat on the table, Abigail sits up and leans as far forward in his direction as she can with the hand still holding her in place, her chair scraping loudly on the floor with her sudden movement. They are close enough she could count Tierney’s eyelashes. “If you ever try something like that again, I will scream into your mind,” she hisses, hands clenching against the tablecloth so she doesn’t reach for him again, doesn’t take him by the shoulders and shake. “Maybe you could get to a knife before the blood starts leaking out of your ears, but let’s not test it and see, hmm?”

The air heavy with her threat, Abigail leans back, eyes still narrowed on him. “As for what I know,” she says, voice pure ice, so far from how they’d started their chat, “All you’ve told me is as good as bullshit. So there’s something special you do, that certain special people hire you for? I could say the same for a pastry chef.” She’s so angry, she nearly throws her napkin at him. She knows she needs to calm down, but her anger is mixed with a much worse, much less forgiving feeling, a deep, heart-wrenching hurt. The spot where the knife had pressed into her still feels cold, as if he’d never pulled it away. “And that’s it. That’s all of it. Because I respect you too goddamn much to pull out any of your secrets, Tierney. I guess I was just idiotic enough to hope you’d offer one up freely.”

It’s only made worse by the knowledge that he’s sharing a drink with someone from the King’s. The gang his gang had royal fucked quite recently. His only solace is that she doesn’t know that. Yet. He wastes a little time by taking a long drink of his whiskey, trying to figure out what to tell her back. An answer for an answer, right. He leans back in his chair, still very much on edge. “A promotion? Must’ve been sudden.” He smiles, keeping his eyes on her as he talks. He can be sneaky with words when he wants. “I followed my clients. Apparently highly specialized motorcycle mechanics are in high demand out here.” He shrugs. “Not that I mind. Getting out from under the thumb of my mutant rank has been…relaxing.” And it has been. “Would a congratulations be out of line?”

Abigail feels coldness like someone’s poured water down her neck. Her smile fades as she looks away from him, downing her drink in one long swig and letting her head fall back so all she can see is the ceiling. The cool mint tingles pleasantly in her stomach, but does nothing to calm what she can feel building up in her pulse. “Oh, Tierney,” she says with a sigh, setting the glass down carefully. She doesn’t look at him until she’s waved down the waiter and gestured for another. Her left hand snakes out to rest on top of his on the table, a delicate touch, the chilly condensation from her glass transferring from her skin to his. “You said an answer for an answer. And we both know being a highly specialized motorcycle mechanic isn’t one.”

She gives him a kind smile, the same kind of smile she’d give a sickly child in a hospital room, and lets the door of her mind unlatch with a silent click. It explodes out, inquisitive tendrils of her thought sliding up Tierney’s arms like so many invisible snakes, finding the cracks in his mind and pulling them apart. She grits her teeth at the influx of emotion, his emotions, the suspicion and the hurt and that thick layer of guarded wariness blanketed around his every step and move and thought. She pushes a little harder, to what he knows, what he’s thinking, as she’s awash with his overwhelming vigilance, the preservation of a mind that’s been through so much--

Enough. She snatches her hand back, slamming her mind shut again. The physical connection didn’t matter but it’s always helped and, honestly, she’d needed the comfort of the touch. Because his reticence had lodged in her throat like a betrayal after what she’d offered him. Her gang, her rank, her trust. And he’d given her a whole load of bullshit in return. “You liar,” she says, almost a snarl, hurt making her harsh. “You-- lying asshole. I don’t know what you’re not telling me, but it’s a whole lot more than just ‘following your clients’.”

No. She wouldn’t let it come to that. She would leave in the dead of night and disappear somewhere else where she could be safe. Maybe it wouldn’t be right to leave all those she had come to know and care for like this, but she didn’t want to sacrifice herself for it. If she left her sister, she could leave the Kings too.

She was so deep in her thoughts, in her choice, that she hadn’t even heard Abigail come in. Foolish. Her guard was down, now of all times. It would’ve made her laugh if Abigail didn’t look so stunned. Kiara stared at her for a moment, taking in the smallest of trembles in Abigail’s hand, before back up at her. She suddenly realized she didn’t want to tell her she was leaving.

“Read my mind?” she wanted to ask like a coward, but that wasn’t fair to Abigail. She deserved more of an explanation than that. She deserved more than Kiara leaving too, but she tried not to think of it.

Her hands stilled in her suitcase as she smiled sadly. “No. I know. I heard. I- well, I can’t stay here, Abi. It isn’t safe for me. If I stay… my past will surely run to drag me down,” she said softly, quietly. Was it cowardly to run in this sense? Kiara wasn’t sure. She wanted to believe she was strong in this sense too, but it was hard to be when her heart was racing with fear of being caught, but now also fear of seeing Abigail cry.

Abi sits heavily on Kiara’s bed, her legs feeling less trustworthy than they did a moment ago. Her anxious hand smoothes down the creases in the bedsheet closest to her as her mind whirrs, looking everywhere but at Kiara. She feels broken open and she doesn’t want the other woman to see whatever is on her face right now, as her curls fall forward like a shield.

“Oh,” she says, eyes sliding to the window and the view that’s become so familiar to her over the past years. Is this the last time she’ll step foot in this apartment, her second home in what was once an overwhelmingly unfamiliar city? How can she keep going in Chicago at all, when it’s only ever been half-her’s, half-Kiara’s?

“I hardly think it’s egotistical. Considering how much time we’ve spent together no? Hard to think much else when you “randomly” appear where I’ve moved. I’m pretty sure in our last discussion we didn’t talk about that.” He smiles, just a little. There’s no malice in it, just tired resignation. He sighs. “The least you owe me is an answer, Abi.” He sighs again and rubs the bridge of his nose. “An answer for an answer, fair enough?”

“To be fair, this-- with you--” she gestures vaguely in the air in Tierney’s direction, “-- is all new to me. Of course I’d had my ideas, but honestly, I don’t know what I do know.” She sighs, scanning his face for something as if it could tell her who he works for, what this is going to do to their friendship, but of course gets nothing. However this ends, she’s going to have to get there the hard way.

Abigail bristles at the concept of owing Tierney anything, owing anyone anything, but keeps her mouth shut. It wouldn’t do any good to get into it now and just end up pushing him away. Anyway, she knows the value a gesture of good faith can have. So she takes a deep breath and another sip from her cocktail, eyes barely flicking to Tierney as she relents. “Well, I’ll say this. I’m here for a promotion, and it certainly has nothing to do with museum management.” She makes a face. “Actually, I’ve had to take quite a hit in that career. Leaving happened so suddenly... but, it was for a higher purpose, so it’s worth it.” she shrugs, putting down her glass. It doesn’t escape her notice that how much he understands from this cryptic anecdote will tell her a lot about where he stands as well.

He holds to door open just long enough for her to follow behind him before making a beeline for an empty table in the corner. The bar is empty enough, which he guesses is better than nothing. He sits down, pointedly keeping his back to the wall. There’s almost no worry this is a trap, he saw the look of shock on her face as clear as it had been on his. But he’s anything if not cautious. He motions to a nearby chair before waving over a server and ordering a glass of straight whiskey.

He waits for the server to leave before talking, his eyes roaming around the room at a steady, practiced pace. “You and I both know this isn’t some happy little accident.” His gaze locks firmly onto her face. He struggles with what to say next, unwilling to ruin things but unable to leave them as they were. Things are too shaky, to unknown. The server comes back and Tierney takes a drink, relishing the burn, smacking the glass onto the table with a little more force than necessary. “Have you been spying on me?” He’s desperate to hear her say no. Desperate to know all those hours spent away from the real world were something more than a ploy. A ploy he’d foolishly fallen for. His gaze hasn’t let up. “I suggest you be honest with me.”

Abi sips her cocktail and manages to keeps her cool as Tierney brings up his doubts about their meeting. However, when he brings up his particular suspicions about her, she’s so taken aback that she practically spit-takes down her blouse. Learning from her experience, she puts her mojito firmly back on the table, pushes it away, and leans forward on her elbows. So, it’s business time, then. Sooner than she’d expected to return to work, but she supposes that’s just life as a newly-promoted underboss. “Why, should I be?” she teases, voice low. “Something you want to share with the class, Tierney?”

After a moment she leans back again, still smirking, and gives him a long, considering look. “There’s a lot of people in Miami, you know. Lots of other people I could be ‘spying on’. A bit egotistical to assume I’m just here for you, no?”

Location: Kiara’s Apartment

Status: Closed (@spitethestrong)

Abigail has only felt like twice before in her life. The first was when she came out to her family; the second was the night she left her childhood home for good. Heart in her throat, torn between the exhilaration of everything changing and the terror of nothing ever being the same. The whole world open for her to take, hers to harness or to be consumed by whole. She thinks it might be the best feeling in the world.

A man is dead, she reminds herself, her hands shaking as she tries to fit her key in the lock to Kiara’s apartment. Out of the dozens of feelings crowding her heart, one or two of them must be mourning-adjacent, but they’re not the ones currently taking her attention. She’ll have time for that later, reflection on why she doesn’t feel worse, if she should feel guilty for not feeling worse. Guilt isn’t something she’s all that familiar with, but Benjamin was good to her, apart from the knife he’d left in her back. Still, as the key slides home and Kiara’s door clicks open, dead Kings are the last thing on her mind.

“Kiara,” she whispers in the dark hallway, voice child-giddy even to her own voice. She stumbles getting her coat off, throwing her boots carelessly behind her. Then, singsong, as she heads towards the bedroom door, half-closed: “Kiaraaa!”

This is what she expects: Kiara waiting for her with her phone in her hands, maybe more upset than Abigail, maybe disapproving that Abigail isn’t more upset, but willing to be brought to Abigail’s side after a few minutes in her giddy presence. Abi draping herself over Kiara’s bed, chattering about plans and dreams and next steps, half-covered by a throw blanket, eyes practically sparkling. Kiara looking half-smiling and indulgent, shooting down the ideas that are plainly absurd. Abi’s enthusiasm finally waning as she throws herself on her back, sighing and resting her head in Kiara’s lap, looking up at her face as she lets a crack of doubt show through her own. Kiara’s hands combing through her hair. “What do you think, my dear? Would you be up for all that?” And the unspoken question, And do you think I could pull it off?

Here Kiara could watch, without being called out. She could sit and experience the amusement of watching someone a couple too shots too drunk fall over, without having to worry about them getting home at the end of the night. Overall, it was a place where she could be alone, while surrounded by others.

Be as that may, that did not mean that when she saw Abigail, she did a one-eighty and headed in the other direction. No, it would be rude not to greet her, especially since Kiara liked to think she had something of a repertoire with the other, working as close to her as she did. It was why she used gently cuffed her shoulder with the hand holding her drink, offering Abigail an almost hidden smile as she lifted her glass in her direction.

“Is that anyway to greet a friend?” she asked, amused, before she chuckled. “Let me buy you a drink?” she offered over the noise as she rested her hip against Abigail’s table with a raised eyebrow.

For the first time all evening, Abigail’s grin is genuine. Amongst all the Kings and their big personalities, Kiara is uniquely easy to love. She grabs Kiara’s wrist that isn’t holding a drink and holds it like it’s the one thing keeping her from getting swept out at sea, like they’re dear friends reuniting from years apart. After the day she’s had, it doesn’t feel far off. “Oh, thank godyou’re here, Mandal. I’ve been in dire need of a bodyguard.” She gestures to the seat next to her with relish, nearly spilling her drink. “Quick, quick, sit down. Before another man tries to hit on me.”

Abi’s been told that liquor brings out her ‘dramatic’ side and that’s likely true, but the same could be said for Kiara herself. Since early in their time working together, Abi’s always taken a certain delight in doing and saying things that might lead to Kiara laughing or smiling, or even rolling her eyes. At first it had been just another challenge, all that intimidating reputation and strength just another egg for Abigail to crack, but when she’d discovered Kiara under it all she’d been immediately endeared to her. There’s something about the woman that is just genuinelykind in a way that Abi hasn’t seen much of in her life, and definitely not in her field of work.

When: Dec 29, 2019

Status: OPEN

The bar is an old haunt, a mutant-friendly establishment on the edge of Ukranian Village, low-key enough the owner lets Abigail smoke inside as long as she stays near the window. It helps he’s an old friend. Abi has lots of old friends in this town. She’d freelanced her powers in the months she’d still been courting the Kings and had loved it, the simple satisfaction of solving a problem for someone else. It was almost all small, petty things-- the trivial mysteries of daily life, cheating spouses and two-timing business partners. It had made a lot of money, but more importantly it’d collected her a lot of favors, ready to cash in as needed. Earning the trust of the owner of her favorite bar had been a plus.

Abigail’s nursing a whisky sour, undecided on whether to get drunk tonight. She feels the old tug to give into temptation, muffle her mind under a thick glaze of liquor and someone else’s affection, playing off a stranger’s mind until she’s captivated them, the focused attention singing through her body. Wow, it’s like I’ve known you forever. Cultivate adoration, and slip out the door before sunrise. 

It’s been a while since she’d done something like that, nursing old wounds with new strangers. Joining the Kings had given her a sense of belonging and purpose, validation that helped temper whatever hungry void pushed her out of bed each morning. Tonight, though, she’s not feeling exactly herself. On her way out of her apartment she’d turned off her phone. And then at the elevator she’d paused, gone back to open her door, and chucked the damn down the hallway.

She fiddles with a cigarette in her hand, not so much wanting to smoke it as needing to busy her hands. She’s trying not to think of her sister’s name, lighting up her phone, relentless these past few days. How she’d even gotten the number, Abi hadn’t a clue, but she was ready to take apart whoever had given it up to Laila, piece by bloody piece. 

She curls her fingers tighter around her drink. Of course it was possible her sister had changed. Abigail would be able to tell within moments of being with her in person, if that calculating brain of hers had opened up itself and let in some genuine love and warmth for once. If she’d started to actually care about Abigail as someone beyond her childhood competitor, the one person between her and winning the only spot in her parent’s limited affections. It had been so long since their childhood, but some divisions couldn’t be healed by time alone, and at this point Abi had stopped hoping. Whatever Laila wanted, Abi didn’t want to hear it, and certainly not over the phone, where she couldn’t read her sister’s intentions. She just wasn’t ready to be disappointed again, to feel that poisonous resentment radiating from her closest kin, cold heat where love should be.

Abigail feels a touch on her shoulder, either on accident or to get her attention, she doesn’t know and doesn’t care. She half-turns, smile ready, aching for the distraction like a painkiller for a migraine. “Can I help you?”

Shae first started by reaching out their free hand and clasping the other’s, making sure that it ran hot. They curled their fingers around the woman’s icy ones and gave her a determined look. “Easy, honey. Let’s start with names; I’m Shae, okay? And all I’m gonna need you to do honey, is keep them calm, alright?” they said soothingly as they reached for the lamp pole. This was going to be tricky, but they hoped the city streets were shitty enough that this worked.

They stood and walked towards the base of the lamp post, before they looked towards the sky. They shut their eyes and allowed themselves to hear the wind, and feel the electricity singing from the sky. It was always a rush, asking for mother nature to answer their call. And She always did. The crack of lightning that struck the ground was hot and bright and blinding, and as they hoped, the ground split and buckled under the force, causing the lamp post to sink and lift off of the pinned individual.

They trotted back over with a triumphant smile, taking a deep breath. “Help me carry them, honey?” they asked the other mutant once more, giving her a soft pat on the hand to reassure her.

The person’s hand curls around Abi’s and she jumps a little, not expecting the touch, definitely not expecting the warmth. Its grounding, like a mug of hot tea pressed to her cheek, and for the first time in a while she takes a deep breath. Their voice is like honey, warm and low, almost oddly soothing in such chaos. For a moment, Abigail is reminded of the stories of her childhood, magical creatures crossing paths in a wood. Good witch or bad witch? It’s a ridiculous thought, being a mutant herself, to imagine this stranger as someone pulled from a fairytale, but the stranger’s soothing demeanor, calling Abigail over when she’d been lost and confused in the chaos, well... it’s not Abigail’s fault she’s not thinking straight. She’d always had an issue with fanciful thoughts.

The person under the lamppost whimpers, and it brings Abigail back to Earth like a slap. She nods, terse, and moves to kneel by the hurt mutant. Their eyes are rolling back in pain, and she puts her hands on the side of their head, cupping their face gently. Not for the first time, she wishes she had Nana’s power, wishes she could do more. But she can’t take the pain out of the person’s head, so she does her best to push in soothing thoughts, gentle strokes at the edges of their mind, murmured lullabies. Someone else’s words showing up in their brain would probably just freak them out more, so she keeps her communication abstract as possible.

The other stranger, the one in the dress, is doing something above them. If Abigail didn’t see them moving in the periphery of her vision, she’d recognize the changes in the air, the sudden weight of it. Of course they’re a mutant, too, with that preternatural warmth of theirs-- she almost blushes at the thought, even as she’s unsure why-- and thank god for that, because the lamppost is lifting, freeing the pinned stranger in its wake. 

“Okay,” Abi says, sliding her arms the hurt stranger’s upper body, and begins to move them. The white-hot screech of pain blanks her mind for a moment, and oh fuck-- she’s still nestled so close to their mind, trying to soothe them, only half paying attention to her own body in the physical world, and the pain makes her stumble. She catches herself just in time, and automatically looks towards the other mutant, grounding herself with their gaze. Abigail jerks her head to the left, ignoring the sweat now beading her forehead, lips pursed against the pain. “I saw an ambulance stationed by the carousel. We could bring them there?”