#299 - Recombine
Madness?
It's Sunday, and he's looking at a hole in a window. It's Friday and he's floating above the world.
It's Tuesday, and he's welcoming John to Genosha by saying "How do you feel about a bit of welding? And sewers. Welding in sewers. It's a tight corners thing." It's Monday and he's wearing shoes and saying, "You're welcome on Genosha any time you want, Madame Ambassador." It's Thursday, and he's drumming his fingertips on the table and saying, "don't tell me what you think you can do; tell me what you want to do, and let's see if we can't work it out." It's Tuesday, and he's kissing Draco's neck and saying, "I was thinking we could have dinner in Austria; there's this orchestra I think you might like." It's Friday and he's--
Mike frowns. "It's not Friday, right?"
"It's Monday," John tells him.
It's Wednesday and, in New York, he thinks diamond thoughts, he thinks expanding phase change boundaries of impossible crystals, he thinks fractals and ferns and frost. It's Friday and, over Genosha, he tumbles up into the sky on wings of force and fire. It's Sunday and, in New York, he tries to remember why he cares. It's Tuesday and, in Vienna, the imperial orchestra play something he isn't listening to, watching Draco's face change with the music. It's Monday and, on the border between Savoie and Valle d'Aosta where the D1090 becomes the SS26, where the Stone road meets the Green, he hovers where once a standing stone marked a gate between realms, sealed long before by Saint Bernard, where now there is nothing to show the scar in the fabric of spacetime. It's Thursday and, looking out over Hammer Bay, he finds himself thinking not of budgets and resources, but of Zippy, of the meaning of small actions in a world full of gods.
"You are a god amongst insects," Magneto says -- but no. He's not there to hear that in this timeline. That never happened. In this one, it's Nate, saying, "Always remember you're just a man."
It's Tuesday, a balmy evening, and he's saying, "John, this is Doctor Hunt." It's Wednesday, morning rain drumming on the mansion eaves as he asks "Where are you?" to the empty air. It's Monday, stars hidden by street-lamps, and he's saying "It was mostly other people's work" to -- Sally? John? Jean-Paul? It's Thursday lunchtime and he's yelling "Super-powered labor is a privilege, not an entitlement! Volunteers! Treated with respect!"
It's Thursday evening on Genosha, a breeze across the balcony, and Charity says, "Okay, but you order us around all the time."
"Do as I say, not as I do," Mike grumps, and she laughs.
It's Friday morning and he's watching Melanie sign, slowly and carefully, and laughing at John's expression. It's Monday morning and he's watching things words can not adequately describe slide down a transdimensional rut to push at the boundaries of the world, time splintering around them. It's Thursday morning and he's complaining about politics. It's Tuesday morning and he screws up breakfast five times before he gives and calls the House Elf in. It's Wednesday morning and Draco pulls him back down onto the bed.
"Always," Mike whispers, "and forever."
It's earlier, and sunflowers burn away under red fire. It's later, and there's blood on his hands and an army at his back. It's earlier, and a sun-dress swirls beneath lullaby song. It's later, and they stand back to back to the end and beyond. It's before, it's after, it's then, it's all now.
It's Sunday, and the damage is done. It's Monday, and the gate holds. It's Tuesday, and John arrives. It's Wednesday, and he searches, and fails, but does not falter. It's Thursday, and he builds. It's Friday, and the skies claim his body as the seas claim his mind, and he maps them both, patterns of air and water, of bird and fish, patterns of people and space and time, of family, and friends, and visiting strangers.
It's Friday, and he flies.
It's Sunday, and he's looking at a hole in a window. It's Friday and he's floating above the world.
It's Tuesday, and he's welcoming John to Genosha by saying "How do you feel about a bit of welding? And sewers. Welding in sewers. It's a tight corners thing." It's Monday and he's wearing shoes and saying, "You're welcome on Genosha any time you want, Madame Ambassador." It's Thursday, and he's drumming his fingertips on the table and saying, "don't tell me what you think you can do; tell me what you want to do, and let's see if we can't work it out." It's Tuesday, and he's kissing Draco's neck and saying, "I was thinking we could have dinner in Austria; there's this orchestra I think you might like." It's Friday and he's--
Mike frowns. "It's not Friday, right?"
"It's Monday," John tells him.
It's Wednesday and, in New York, he thinks diamond thoughts, he thinks expanding phase change boundaries of impossible crystals, he thinks fractals and ferns and frost. It's Friday and, over Genosha, he tumbles up into the sky on wings of force and fire. It's Sunday and, in New York, he tries to remember why he cares. It's Tuesday and, in Vienna, the imperial orchestra play something he isn't listening to, watching Draco's face change with the music. It's Monday and, on the border between Savoie and Valle d'Aosta where the D1090 becomes the SS26, where the Stone road meets the Green, he hovers where once a standing stone marked a gate between realms, sealed long before by Saint Bernard, where now there is nothing to show the scar in the fabric of spacetime. It's Thursday and, looking out over Hammer Bay, he finds himself thinking not of budgets and resources, but of Zippy, of the meaning of small actions in a world full of gods.
"You are a god amongst insects," Magneto says -- but no. He's not there to hear that in this timeline. That never happened. In this one, it's Nate, saying, "Always remember you're just a man."
It's Tuesday, a balmy evening, and he's saying, "John, this is Doctor Hunt." It's Wednesday, morning rain drumming on the mansion eaves as he asks "Where are you?" to the empty air. It's Monday, stars hidden by street-lamps, and he's saying "It was mostly other people's work" to -- Sally? John? Jean-Paul? It's Thursday lunchtime and he's yelling "Super-powered labor is a privilege, not an entitlement! Volunteers! Treated with respect!"
It's Thursday evening on Genosha, a breeze across the balcony, and Charity says, "Okay, but you order us around all the time."
"Do as I say, not as I do," Mike grumps, and she laughs.
It's Friday morning and he's watching Melanie sign, slowly and carefully, and laughing at John's expression. It's Monday morning and he's watching things words can not adequately describe slide down a transdimensional rut to push at the boundaries of the world, time splintering around them. It's Thursday morning and he's complaining about politics. It's Tuesday morning and he screws up breakfast five times before he gives and calls the House Elf in. It's Wednesday morning and Draco pulls him back down onto the bed.
"Always," Mike whispers, "and forever."
It's earlier, and sunflowers burn away under red fire. It's later, and there's blood on his hands and an army at his back. It's earlier, and a sun-dress swirls beneath lullaby song. It's later, and they stand back to back to the end and beyond. It's before, it's after, it's then, it's all now.
It's Sunday, and the damage is done. It's Monday, and the gate holds. It's Tuesday, and John arrives. It's Wednesday, and he searches, and fails, but does not falter. It's Thursday, and he builds. It's Friday, and the skies claim his body as the seas claim his mind, and he maps them both, patterns of air and water, of bird and fish, patterns of people and space and time, of family, and friends, and visiting strangers.
It's Friday, and he flies.