BDL #99 - X-Men
May. 12th, 2006 03:59 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kittydesadeTitle: Xanadu
Fandom: X-Men
Characters: Sabretooth, Mystique
Word Count: 516
Rating: PG-13
Summary: If things had been different; Sabretooth Limited Series #1 (or is it #2)
She said she wasn't fond of singing in the wilderness, and she left.
He went after her and chased her back down, threw her on the bed and convinced her of a couple more hours of fun. They spent another week there, hiding out, enjoying the hell out of a war they no longer took sides in.
When they needed food, he stole it. When they craved alcohol or videos or more eclectic toys, he stole it. She went out now and then to gather information and make sure they were safe, but she always came back. Her hand was tiny against his drug-enhanced bicep.
But then one day she went out and he got a phone call two hours later asking him to come identify a body.
He told her they had all they needed right there, and she left.
He got the phone call a few minutes later, and broke three jaws chasing her down. If there had been a speed limit he would have shot it to pieces; as it was he thought something popped in his hands trying to edge more speed out of the damn thing.
The bike hit a speed bump, a rock, something, and sent him flying. He turned momentum into a massive attack, landing on three of her assailants and ripping their throats out before they had time to blink. It was enough for her to get control of the gun, and then it was over.
But she turned the gun on him and he didn't understand what he saw, or rather what he didn't see in her eyes when she pulled the trigger. His last words were I thought we were having a good time. For the moment.
Over a two-liter bottle of whiskey he runs through the scenarios in his mind, over and over again. How he could have saved her, how he could have saved them both. Things he could have done differently. Smarts weren't the way he got things done but it wasn't as though he was lacking in brain-power. Fucking with people's heads was also one of his specialties. He just happened to prefer the direct approach.
But her? She was the master at skull-fuckery. She had played him for a sucker and that was just salt on the gaping wound. He could count the number of minutes he'd felt something like contentment (not satiation, just contentment) on his fingers, with digits left over. He didn't like to think about it either, it was too far from what he preferred to be to make him comfortable.
And she'd played him, and used him, and left him to die. Then left him to be killed by their son. To be set up by their son to kill each other. Daddy's little boy. Mom's, too.
When the bottle's empty he stops thinking and throws it against the wall, listens to it shatter. It was plastic, and it still shatters. Revenge isn't on his mind, not yet, but he knows it will be. Revenge for Birdie, among other things. Poor kid. He shoulda been the one to do it.
Revenge for Leni, too. Decades overdue. By now he knows she's a figment of his imagination.
Not that he cares.
Fandom: X-Men
Characters: Sabretooth, Mystique
Word Count: 516
Rating: PG-13
Summary: If things had been different; Sabretooth Limited Series #1 (or is it #2)
She said she wasn't fond of singing in the wilderness, and she left.
He went after her and chased her back down, threw her on the bed and convinced her of a couple more hours of fun. They spent another week there, hiding out, enjoying the hell out of a war they no longer took sides in.
When they needed food, he stole it. When they craved alcohol or videos or more eclectic toys, he stole it. She went out now and then to gather information and make sure they were safe, but she always came back. Her hand was tiny against his drug-enhanced bicep.
But then one day she went out and he got a phone call two hours later asking him to come identify a body.
He told her they had all they needed right there, and she left.
He got the phone call a few minutes later, and broke three jaws chasing her down. If there had been a speed limit he would have shot it to pieces; as it was he thought something popped in his hands trying to edge more speed out of the damn thing.
The bike hit a speed bump, a rock, something, and sent him flying. He turned momentum into a massive attack, landing on three of her assailants and ripping their throats out before they had time to blink. It was enough for her to get control of the gun, and then it was over.
But she turned the gun on him and he didn't understand what he saw, or rather what he didn't see in her eyes when she pulled the trigger. His last words were I thought we were having a good time. For the moment.
Over a two-liter bottle of whiskey he runs through the scenarios in his mind, over and over again. How he could have saved her, how he could have saved them both. Things he could have done differently. Smarts weren't the way he got things done but it wasn't as though he was lacking in brain-power. Fucking with people's heads was also one of his specialties. He just happened to prefer the direct approach.
But her? She was the master at skull-fuckery. She had played him for a sucker and that was just salt on the gaping wound. He could count the number of minutes he'd felt something like contentment (not satiation, just contentment) on his fingers, with digits left over. He didn't like to think about it either, it was too far from what he preferred to be to make him comfortable.
And she'd played him, and used him, and left him to die. Then left him to be killed by their son. To be set up by their son to kill each other. Daddy's little boy. Mom's, too.
When the bottle's empty he stops thinking and throws it against the wall, listens to it shatter. It was plastic, and it still shatters. Revenge isn't on his mind, not yet, but he knows it will be. Revenge for Birdie, among other things. Poor kid. He shoulda been the one to do it.
Revenge for Leni, too. Decades overdue. By now he knows she's a figment of his imagination.
Not that he cares.