Work Text:
The bar is dark, in the way that most of them aren’t. It’s not even trying to be welcoming. This is a place of regulars, of men who return each day after work, of women who slide through the doors every day at the same time. The smoke hangs low in the air, probably released from it’s cigarettes weeks ago, still lingering in the lungs of all those patrons. Low voices pass beneath the silence, beers are poured and set down with hefty clinks, and the bar resembles a pocket of steady unchangeableness outside of the rapid movement of the world outside.
In the corner sits an unlikely pair of people. Both hold identical mugs of beer in their hand (Molson's, the man had growled when first coming to the bar), though he’s been through four now and she’s still on her first glass. That in itself is not so strange. The confusion might come about if someone looked a little closer at the pair. Colours are muted through the smoke, but there’s no denying that the girl’s skin is pink, and she has purple diamonds on her face that blend into her eyes like tattoos. The man, too, is irregular, standing over six and half feet tall, with blond hair that hangs past his shoulders and deep set eyes that glare out at everyone around him. They make an odd pair, sitting at the tiny table in the furthest corner from the door, her so small and him so big. She leans against him when she’s not drinking, tucking herself into the space underneath his shoulder, and they don’t talk. They drink, and watch the world around them, and sit in ever growing silence between themselves.
For people paying so much attention to those around them, they miss the arrival of two particular patrons of note. The newcomers go to the bar first, and that is where they are when they are noticed by the couple in the corner. He tenses, and a moment later she does. He nods, and in unison they place their mugs back on the table, and slide around. They move in an odd tandem, especially given their distinctive difference. She is smaller, but places herself between and the couple at the bar. Though his eyes lock on the door and their exit, he seems to be aware of all that around him. The smoke is not dulling his senses.
The pair are nearly at the door when the two at the bar, another man and women, turn to them. There is no tandem in this movement, just the casual flicking of shoulders that indicates they have been partners for long enough to read each other easily. The man speaks, and the two who were about to leave stop.
“Victor.”
“Logan.”
Though Logan walked away from the bar, and his footsteps were heavy, Victor and his companion did not turn around. “What brings you here?”
“I could ask you the same, runt.”
A thin pink hand settled on Victor’s arm, and his shoulders slumped down in what anyone else would be defeat, but it’s his way of being more approachable. He seems smaller when he does it, when his broad shoulders curl in and his head dips down just a little.
The action calls attention to the girl, no, women. Her height makes her seem young, but there is no youth in her eyes, in the burning glare they cast when she turns around and stares at the two who have interrupted their night out. It is almost too old for her, an ancient wisdom, built in hate and solidified against the two she stares down. “We weren’t causing any trouble. What do you want?”
“And who are you,” the woman, standing behind Logan, asks.
It is Logan who answers, not the person the question was directed at. “Blink. Or Clarice, I suppose, since this isn’t the same world.” His words bear the weight of lose, though the girl frowns, without a trace of recognition in the set of her lips. And then there is, a spark of knowledge in her eyes. Her fingers squeeze Victor’s skin, he turns around, hands pressed into his pockets.
“You remember.”
Now, there are two sets of confused lips, four eyes that look to her in search of understanding, and one pair of eyes that stares back, bright green striking out from under pink lids. Logan opens his mouth, closes it, and his companion watches, her brows drawn together in unspoken question. Her eyes go from Logan, to Victor, to the woman.
“You weren’t supposed to remember,” Logan says, and the girl laughs.
“I tend not to do what people expect of me.”
“Ah,” Logan’s female counterpart says, as her expression smooths out. Not completely, but enough to show that many questions have been answered for her in that simple exchange, fewer questions than it has raised.
“What you doing with him, then?” Logan jerks his chin towards Victor, who bristles, hands that are still in trouser pockets curling inwards into fists.
“I don’t think that’s any of your business.”
“Fact is, I rather think it is. You were an Xman, Clarice.”
“Blink.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You haven’t earned the right to call me Clarice. Not in that world, not in this one.”
Victor’s hand settles on her shoulder, and she leans into the touch, a soft smile over taking the hard line that had been on her lips before. Logan looks at that motion with a frown, a huff passing through his mouth. “Blink then. What are you doing with him?”
“Logan,” his companion says warningly. “She’s right, it’s not our business. If they aren’t starting anything...”
“Victor here doesn’t do anything but start things. And that’s he’s taking up with a nice girl like Blink here, well, that’s a big something.” Logan is growling through his teeth now, his words deep and full of annoyance. He doesn’t like being held back; he dislikes being wrong even more. And he’s never been wrong when it comes to Victor being in this part of town.
“Storm,” Blink says, and starts the other woman with the knowledge of her name, “do keep Wolverine here from following us. I’d hate for him to get cut in half.” And then, as Logan lungs forward, as Storm begins forming a question, pink light swallows the strange pair, and they’re gone. Logan stumbles, his claws half way extended towards air that was now empty of all but smoke.
“What,” Storm says, her mouth drawn out into a thin line, hand falling from where she had held Logan back, “was that all about?”
Logan huffs, and turns to flag down the bartender. His shoulders and hanging low, in a completely different manner than Victor’s had earlier. No acceptance, just defeat. “I knew her. From... that other time.”
“Ah,” Storm says, and raises her hand for her own beer. “What are you going to tell the Professor?”
“What, that a kid I barely knew from that time remembers that whole hell hole and is now hanging out with Sabretooth of all people? You think Chuck’s going to like that.” He says it with a complete deadpan voice, and somehow that manages to bring a smirk to Storm’s face.