fridgetothefire | 031 ☣ she has a lot of true colors

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031 ☣ she has a lot of true colors

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[The feed is at a slightly awkward angle, held one-handed. It's Anya and Two-Face. She's behind him, her chin on his shoulder on the scarred side, her other arm wrapped around him and holding a slim black knife at his throat. The knife and her hand are already thoroughly bloody, though his neck is - thus far - unscathed. Two-Face looks furious and strained. Anya looks fierce but cold and calm, almost serene.]

Two-Face is losing a lot of blood. Someone should come help him to the infirmary. We're in the library, historical nonfiction, MA to MC.

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I'm proud of you, you know. Not entirely sure I've a right to be, but that doesn't change it.

[slfnskbs well that's one way to stop her being pissy]

[Her calm cracks, right now the middle, and she suddenly looks vulnerable and delighted and chagrined.]

You do. Have a right. A hell of a lot more of one than the guy who raised me.

[She looks like a child, a child he could have, and he has to return the smile. If he thinks back - and he often does - he can still hear her calling him Daddy.]

Good. He doesn't deserve much of anything.

[She's never quite sure what he deserved from her; he did save her once. But she's generally of the opinion that they're - square enough, now that's killed him. And now she doesn't need him to protect her anymore. It feels good.]

Thank you.

[Not for talking about him; the other thing. Her voice catches a little. She's not going to cry.]

[He smiles, ducks his head in an almost embarrassed way. He hopes she doesn't cry.]

You're welcome. [It wonders if it's the sort of thing he ought to say more often, thinks maybe he should. He doesn't know how to ask.]

[She's alright with it; rare is okay, rare keeps it precious. But it is so very good to hear, like a dislocated joint snapping back into alignment, like a little chip of porcelain finally set back into its hollow place deep inside her, something that was missing so long she'd almost forgotten it hurt. She breathes deep and lets it - settle, a little, lets herself accept how much she wanted it, whether she needed it or not. She looks lighter, brighter.]

Tell me what you've been practicing.

[Because she knows he has been, since the last crash. It's something they've talked around, since the first messy conversation about Magneto and Shaw. But he's been so good to her, not just in this moment but for a long time. Whatever part of her kept coiled and slightly askew on the subject of his expanding abilities, she lets it go.]

[He still hesitates, afraid of the ugly ways this could turn. She asks, but he doesn't know whether or not to trust that she really wants to hear. So he's slow about it, paying careful attention. Just in case he has to pull back.]

A few things. Lightning is...exhausting. But it's getting easier. [He doesn't want to linger on that, with her, because while the power fills his chest, he knows she has every reason to fear that.]

Raven gave me glitter [His expression twitches, acknowledging how he thought it was silly at first, too] to practice more minute manipulations. Picking out grains has been fascinating.

[That was a joke.]

[If she were planning to move against him - and part of her, a very small and vigilant part, will never stop - the fine control would really be of more concern. It is the province of humility, of careful dedication, and she always did her most effect work in the interstitial potentials left untouched by arrogance, because he was too strong to bother with finesse, with the sort of delicate skill that could divert a bullet in a literal instant, far enough off-target to save his life but minutely enough not to give the game away. Her father just wasn't that good, never needed to be, had other obsessions to occupy him.

Erik is working to better himself for its own sake; and, if anything else, to protect the people he cares for. It would make him more difficult to destroy; it also allows him to use less force. And he respects her strength; she is not afraid of the shadow of his protection. She smiles, raises an immaculately precise eyebrow.]

Combine the two and someday you might be able to touch nerve impulses.

[Which is terrifying. Just - not for her. He wouldn't.]

Someday very far off, maybe. [He can't deny its appeal: what he could do, with power like that. But it would leave him with more moral quandries than he has patience for, now. Perhaps it should concern, that his first ideas for such abilities would be to change things forcibly for the better. To make the opponents of civil liberties - for all - stand down. Better yet, to make them stand up for a better cause.

The possibilities are endless, and some small corner of his brain will never forget the suggestion. It will spin on, keeping the option present, fresh. They're alike in that way.]

[She'll leave him with the ambition, the temptation, like a sharp-edged token of her esteem. On the other hand - it's one more thing to grow old for, to not die young and radical for, having that kind of time to learn himself.]

Are you flying yet?

Since Cuba. [He can remember the moment, between dropping the coin, blinking his vision clear, and entering the sun with Shaw's body hovering before him like an offering. The realization that he was powerful.]

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031 ☣ she has a lot of true colors

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