(no subject)

Jul 29, 2011 15:34

 SUP Y'ALL

going to take advantage of LJ's resurrection to post some X-men nonsense!

so I came out of the movie shipping Angel/Darwin a lot. Well, Angel/Darwin/Alex, to be more precise, but. Here is a relevant sketch.



Emma Frost fights polar bears and wins.



Raven....... wears a T-shirt that has a tiger on it because... I have an abominable sense of humor.



Aaaaand a brief crossover, HP/X-Men, featuring two lovely shapeshifters failing entirely to quite understand one another.

The thing about Tonks is she doesn’t look like anyone at all.

They’re in her bed, and Tonks has her head pillowed on Raven’s stomach in a way that makes Raven feel slightly sick and very good. Tonks is laughing, for no obvious reason.

“Where did you get that face?” says Raven, slowly; she feels as if she’s somehow underwater, the light of the lamp heavy but fragile on her bare shoulder.

Tonk turns her head, her smile curving into view like the bright side of the moon. “Learned it from my mother,” she says, easily, and for a moment her hair slides dark along the underside of Raven’s breasts.

Raven thinks of hours spent with Charles in the Xavier portrait gallery, one hand outstretched before her towards those features that recurred in paint and in the pale, ordinary face of the boy at her elbow, and says: “Did you learn it, or were you taught?”

Tonks blinks. “Both, I reckon.”

Raven says nothing.

Tonks rolls the rest of the way onto her side, reaching over to squeeze the scaleless inside of Raven’s arm. “It’s like- it’s like languages, right?” she says, her voice unusually gentle. “You don’t start out with anything, it’s all just ideas like hungry and cold and mum without any, you know, names. You pick up the symbols as you go. That was me, but with looks.”

Raven tips her head back, breaking eye contact, and nods, half at the ceiling. Tonks makes a frustrated sound.

“And you,” she says, “you’re every bit the polyglot I am, but you were born speaking blue.”

“That’s not,” says Raven, but Tonks lifts her fingers from Raven’s bicep to thumb the swell of Raven’s lip, and in that moment Raven still likes her far too much, so she touches her tongue to the flexible edge of Tonks’ nail.

It’s not, though. The resistance that develops in her cells after too long holding a shape she doesn’t own, maybe that’s like the tremor in an interpreter’s voice, but when Tonks changes there’s no tension at all: no slow ongoing translation.

It occurs to Raven that if Tonks died, right now, right here- if Erik called her and said one word and Raven took the gun from the bedside table while Tonks was sprawled and grinning and tracing the contours of her teeth and shot her in the small delicate head, Tonks would still look just like this, give or take a hole.

It doesn’t matter.

It could.

“Be me,” says Raven, indistinctly, lips closing around in a loose O around Tonks’ knuckle. She is still looking at the ceiling; she’s not sure, really, that she wants to see the silent spread of blue.
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