X-23 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
cutting_edgex23) wrote2012-04-02 09:50 pm
cutting_edgex23) wrote2012-04-02 09:50 pm
X does not negotiate with terrorists. Demons, however . . .
For the first time in a week and a half, X does not dream.
No hellfire flickers in her mind's eye.
No horrible Wolverine-doppelganger stalks her sleep, trying to touch her, trying to take her somewhere she does not want to be.
She slides her right leg under Bruce's left, ankles locking gently, and halfway opens her eyes. Three hours is longer than she expected to sleep, but that is not a bad thing. X stays where she is for a few minutes, absorbing the warmth and listening to the rhythmic cadence of Bruce's breathing, where he lies next to her, listens carefully to the slow, steady beating of his heart.
But sloth is not one of X's main skills, which is why she slides out of bed after awhile, padding out into the kitchen wearing a tank top and a pair of underwear.
It is comfortable.
When she returns, bearing a glass of milk and half a bowl of cereal --
The false Logan is waiting, sprawled out on her side of the bed, claws far too near Bruce's throat.
"There you are, my beautiful killer, my vicious queen. One last time will I ask you, come with me. Should you defy me again -- and oh, such spirit I had not thought to see, not from a made thing, not for a sword forged from the finest steel in creation -- "
The not!Wolverine's eyes flash orange, flash red, and one clawed hand rests on the pillow near Bruce's face.
X is frozen.
"Should you defy me, pretty little assassin, I will snuff his life out with no more thought than you have ever given your victims."
He smiles, sharp white teeth flashing in a face that looks less and less human with every passing second.
"You know precisely how little thought that is, my dearest plaything, don't you?"
X does not blink. She barely even breathes. If this is a dream -- if this is a dream it means nothing, but if it is real --
If it is real, Bruce is not allowed to die here.
Carefully, X sets her glass of milk and bowl of cereal on the bedside table, both eyes fixed on the false Wolverine the entire time.
Only then, when both hands are free, does she speak.
"Okay."
Her voice is even, cool and calm and matter-of-fact. Her face remains expressionless.
"I will go with you. But you will leave him alone."
"Oh my dearest dear," says the thing that has never been Logan, will never be Logan, "you will never know what that means to me."
And then he takes her hand, skin charring under the immense heat rolling off his fingers, and they are gone.
Hell has very fine weather, this time of year. And the hounds are looking forward to having time to play.
No hellfire flickers in her mind's eye.
No horrible Wolverine-doppelganger stalks her sleep, trying to touch her, trying to take her somewhere she does not want to be.
She slides her right leg under Bruce's left, ankles locking gently, and halfway opens her eyes. Three hours is longer than she expected to sleep, but that is not a bad thing. X stays where she is for a few minutes, absorbing the warmth and listening to the rhythmic cadence of Bruce's breathing, where he lies next to her, listens carefully to the slow, steady beating of his heart.
But sloth is not one of X's main skills, which is why she slides out of bed after awhile, padding out into the kitchen wearing a tank top and a pair of underwear.
It is comfortable.
When she returns, bearing a glass of milk and half a bowl of cereal --
The false Logan is waiting, sprawled out on her side of the bed, claws far too near Bruce's throat.
"There you are, my beautiful killer, my vicious queen. One last time will I ask you, come with me. Should you defy me again -- and oh, such spirit I had not thought to see, not from a made thing, not for a sword forged from the finest steel in creation -- "
The not!Wolverine's eyes flash orange, flash red, and one clawed hand rests on the pillow near Bruce's face.
X is frozen.
"Should you defy me, pretty little assassin, I will snuff his life out with no more thought than you have ever given your victims."
He smiles, sharp white teeth flashing in a face that looks less and less human with every passing second.
"You know precisely how little thought that is, my dearest plaything, don't you?"
X does not blink. She barely even breathes. If this is a dream -- if this is a dream it means nothing, but if it is real --
If it is real, Bruce is not allowed to die here.
Carefully, X sets her glass of milk and bowl of cereal on the bedside table, both eyes fixed on the false Wolverine the entire time.
Only then, when both hands are free, does she speak.
"Okay."
Her voice is even, cool and calm and matter-of-fact. Her face remains expressionless.
"I will go with you. But you will leave him alone."
"Oh my dearest dear," says the thing that has never been Logan, will never be Logan, "you will never know what that means to me."
And then he takes her hand, skin charring under the immense heat rolling off his fingers, and they are gone.
Hell has very fine weather, this time of year. And the hounds are looking forward to having time to play.