Chapter Text
1.
“I want to hold you to the sun,
I want to be your faithful one,
I want to show you all the beauty you don't even know you hold.
I'm hurting you for your own good,
I'd die for you, you know I would;
I'd give up all my wealth to buy you back the soul you never sold.”
Emilie Autumn – Liar
Jubilee – pardon, Wolverine – was going to kill him.
It wasn't enough that Quentin had attacked an officer of law live; it wasn't enough that he had spewed creative insults at the man in his native language – also live; it wasn't enough that he had stormed off – even if he had done it to avoid killing that cop; and it wasn't enough that he had been continuosly avoiding his teammates' calls – his phone currently on the table must have had at least a hundred missed calls.
No, that wasn't enough, Quentin mused as he kicked one of the bastards in the face. He had entered the first not-too-seedy pub he'd found, he had gotten quite spectacularly drunk, and then found himself holding off three bastards who had thought their ideas of what had transpired in the streets a few hours before could be of interest to the rest of the pub.
Yes, if Wolverine had seen what he was doing, she would have definitely had a fit. Too bad he didn't fucking care right now.
“Anyone else want to insult that girl?” he asked slowly in clear Japanese.
She got what she deserved, thought the man whose neck was pinned beneath Quentin's foot, and Quentin kicked him again.
“Think that again and I'll melt your mind,” he spat.
This wasn't a careful approach, but he was drunk and he didn't care and he was fucking tired of humans thinking the only solution to mutants losing control of their powers was to kill them. And the girl had been so young. Her powers had probably only just began to manifest, and now she was dead because a cop had gotten scared. Why the hell had they called in the X-Men if they'd only intended on taking matters into their own hands?
Someone coughed discreetly behind him and Quentin whipped around on his heels. He hadn't sensed the intruder's approach because he had one of those fucking telepathy-blocking chips, and, well. Maybe his own mental state was to blame too.
It was a man dressed inconspicuosly.
“Bouncer?” Quentin grinned, swaying on his feet.
The man's nose wiggled; Quentin's breath probably didn't smell of roses.
“You are making a scene, Hou-ou-sama,” he said in English.
“Aw, sama? Really? So proper!”
“Yes.” The nose wiggled again. “It would be best for you to follow me.”
“Or else you will – what?” Quentin challenged. “I can make you do what I want, you know.”
“They think they special!” shouted a bartender in atrocious English.
The man held up a hand. “Please. The matter is in our hands, don't worry,” he said in Japanese.
“He destroyed my furniture.” The bar owner began an endless tirade about what Quentin had done, what had he thrown, what had he burned – jee, an-noy-ing.
The man slid a hand in his pocket and pulled out a check. “Here. Write down the amount you deem acceptable.” He let it fall to the ground. “With many apologies from Ryuujin.”
That shut the man up. It also piqued Quentin's interest, and so he resolved to follow the man and see what he wanted. Were the stranger to try something, Quentin would simply shut his brain down.
Yes, yes, Wolverine will kill me – he sing-songed in his mind as he caught his phone from the table, saw that she was calling him – speak of the devil – turned it off and slid it in his pocket. Swaying on his feet, he followed the man outside, where there was a black limousine waiting. The man opened the car door for him and beckoned him inside. Cocking an eyebrow, Quentin complied – he was staggering so much that the man had to help him in, and then the man closed the car door. Quentin closed his eyes and pressed his cheek against the cold window, and as the car began moving he dry heaved, and placed a hand over his mouth. Ohhhh, he felt like shit –
“Quentin, are you okay?” Quentin sobbed at the voice – too painfully similar to Daken's. Perhaps he was hallucinating. Yes. That was it – he had evidently just gotten too old to get drunk. One reached that point, eventually.
“Quentin?” Again, and it was too agonizing to imagine Daken sitting in front of him, so Quentin opened his eyes and saw –
– Daken sitting in front of him.
Quentin's head bobbed and he bent down and he threw up on the car's floorboard, and probably on Daken's shoes too. Oh, fuck.
“No, I can see that you aren't.” A hand on Quentin's head, and Daken's fingers run gently through his hair as he threw up again, blinking rapidly, too shocked and nauseated to try to avoid Daken's now-not-so-clean shoes. Oh, God, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry –
Daken was shushing him softly, and Quentin felt tears at the corners of his eyes as he continued vomiting. When he felt nothing was going to come up anymore he still remained bent down, because he didn't want to straighten up and face Daken, he didn't want to see his face.
“Can you sit up? Quentin, are you okay?”
This was ridiculous. He had to take responsibility for his actions. Quentin held himself, gritted his teeth, and sat up.
Daken was sitting in front of him, still slightly bent towards him, brows knitted in worry. Oh, no, I don't deserve it. I don't. He was as handsome as Quentin remembered him, long black hair tied in a loose ponytail, bright blue eyes that were watching him as if he were something about to explode.
He was something about to explode. He was trapped in a car with the man whose mind he had bent and twisted horribly, who had dealt him a blow and then escaped, as was his right, but that didn't change the fact that Quentin was still reeling from it. And the image of that poor girl's fragile body shot by the police was still in his mind, and he was holding together the Phoenix's powers with effort, so having an emotional breakdown in such a tiny space wasn't an option. Control. Yourself.
“How did you know where I was?” Quentin managed to keep his voice calm.
“Security cameras, of course. Quentin, are you okay?” Daken was behaving as if that night of five years ago hadn't ever happened – but it had and Quentin couldn't pretend everything was okay.
“No,” he choked out, “No, I'm not.”
“That girl's death wasn't your fault.”
I should have stopped the bullet, I could have stopped the bullet, I'm a telekinetic, for God's sake! “Yeah, I know that.” Liar, liar, liar. “Those bastards – in the bar –” he seethed at what they had said.
“There won't be problems, Quentin. I've settled it quietly, the press won't know about your – outburst.”
Quentin laughed. It was hysterical, and he couldn't stop it. Here was Daken, setting things right, taking care of Quentin's shit, and Quentin didn't deserve this.
“I'm taking you back to your hotel. Your teammates will –”
“No,” Quentin spat, “I don't fucking want to see anyone right now.”
Daken blinked. He touched the intercom, and told the chauffeur to bring them home.
Meaning, probably, Daken's own home. Oh, no, I can't –
“There's no need –”
“I won't throw you on the streets, you're drunk. What happens if you decide to go fly for a while and then you pass out when you're in the air?”
I don't deserve this, I don't deserve you worrying about me.
“I'd die, probably,” he said, unblinking, and Daken stared at him, just stared at him long, and hard, and then said:
“No. I don't think so.”
“Look –”
“No. It's my house or your hotel, Quentin.”
Face his team leader whom he wanted to punch in the face due to her bland approach to the events that had transpired, or face a long, sad night with a man whose life he had probably ruined? There wasn't a doubt in his mind with whom he would have rather spent time with, and that, given what he had done, was damn selfish of him. But his head was spinning at Daken's mere presence, and the alcohol burned through his veins, and he wanted to set at least something right somehow, and this he could, because that girl was dead, but Daken was alive.
“Fuck, okay. Your house it is.”
He settled back on his seat, and Daken removed his own shoes and brought his legs up to sit cross-legged.
“Sorry about your car,” Quentin said, staring at the pool of vomit, because it was better to begin with something this simple, but he couldn't bring himself to look up at Daken's face.
“I'll change it.”
The rest of the ride was painfully silent, and Quentin knew his own gaze must appear vacant and idiotic from the outside – but he couldn't bring himself to speak again. The ride ended too quickly, and the ineffable chauffeur opened the car door once more. Daken disentangled his long legs and exited the car barefoot; Quentin, still inebriated, was far less elegant, even managing to step in the expansive pool of vomit. Wonderful. He got out of the car staggering and Daken caught him. As if from far, far away Quentin heard Daken tell the man to station outside, “and notify me as soon as it's cleaned up,” and then he was walking, an arm around Quentin's waist, the other holding him upright. What a disgusting picture he was making, Quentin thought, lips curling in a sneer.
He hadn't succeeded in getting a good look at the house as they were approaching it – but then they were inside, and it was really nice. A wide, elegant entrance, and he glimpsed a gigantic living room as they walked, and a room – a study, perhaps – with its door ajar to present a view of stacked bookcases; and then they were entering another large room. The wall opposite its entrance constructed entirely of thick, polished glass, through which a garden was visible, illuminated by some lanterns. A sliding door lead outside. Nice.
Daken turned on the light, and the most conspicuous furniture in the room was revealed. Ah.
“Bathroom first, I think,” said Daken, and led him to the left, to a room as pristine as himself, white and immaculate. There was a bathtub and a shower box – but Quentin's attention was drawn quickly to the toilet, and he rushed over to it.
“Yes, well,” a murmur behind him, and then Daken was on his knees beside him. “I think I'm going to push your nausea to its limit, if that's all right for you.”
Pheromones certainly came in handy, Quentin thought as he nodded, eyes wide, and then he couldn't think anymore because he was throwing up his soul in that poor toilet. He shuddered and vomited and shuddered and vomited and shuddered and vomited till there certainly couldn't be anything more in his stomach, and all the time there was a hand on his back, moving constantly in a soothing, circling caress. When he finished Daken procured him a tootbrush and toothpaste, and he took them without a question and brushed his teeth. He splashed cold water on his face, too, because he felt bathed in sweat, sticky and disgusting.
“Feeling better?”
Almost. He could not feel better, not now, not with all those thoughts spiralling in his head, but at least now he could think somewhat clearly. They went out of the bathroom, and yes, the enormous, lavishly arranged bed was still there. So this is my punishment, Quentin thought, and it was good, it was just, and he would have even enjoyed it, probably, because he was a fucking monster.
Daken led him to it, and made him sit, and then he – he knelt in front of him, and began fumbling with the strings of one of Quentin's shoes. It was, for a moment, out of place and so ridiculous that Quentin just stared at Daken's lowered head, surmising that this was, quite obviously, a hallucination: he must be passed out in a dark alley, drowning in his own vomit.
Daken removed the shoe and went to the other one. He was visibly aroused: his pupils were so dilated, and no, this wasn't a hallucination. This was real and –
“So what's going to happen now?” Quentin asked, and realised his voice was low and his hands were grasping madly at the covers, and that the sight of Daken on his knees in front of him was doing things to his brain and his cock, because he was a fucking asshole. A bastard, a son of a bitch, a damn animal – “Are you going to take advantage of me?”
Daken started and raised his head, a slightly puzzled look in his eyes. He blinked. “You're drunk.”
“No, I'm pretty lucid.” Quentin couldn't tear his gaze off Daken's kneeling figure. “You should, you know. That's what I deserve. For what I did to you.”
“What you did to me.” Daken blinked, and for a millisecond there was a look of horror on his face. He was recalling that night, probably. Quentin felt nauseous.
“Yes. I forced you, no? I forced your hand. Your mind. I hurt you. I deserve this,” Quentin spat the word.
Daken was staring up at him, rigid, a hand still over Quentin's shoe. “What do you think I should do?” he asked, and his voice was rough. “Tell me.”
“You should hurt me,” Quentin said, and Daken's breath hitched. “You should make me bleed. You should bend me and beat me and bury your claws in me, you should pin me down and do what you want and throw me away, a bloody pulp, something so disgusting people would look away –” Daken's lips had parted as Quentin spoke, and his pupils were now black pools. Good. Do what you want with me. Do what –
“You would let me do this to you,” Daken's voice was strangled, “Because you think you hurt me?”
“I know I did. I –” I'm so sorry. I – God, I'm sorry. “There's nothing I can do to make it up to you. But you can avenge yourself, you can – I'm here. Take me. I won't do anything, I won't resist, I won't –”
“You've giving me a fair bit of power over you, Quentin.” Daken appeared to be having trouble breathing. “Are you sure that's wise?”
Quentin very nearly laughed. It wasn't but he had never been and fuck, he deserved it. “I want to make it up to you. I deserve –”
Daken was close now, very close, hands on the mattress at Quentin's sides, face mere inches from his. Quentin's breath hitched. Fuck. Yes, punish me, hurt me – Daken's lips appeared so soft and moist, parted as they were, tongue darting briefly between his teeth. “You seem to be on a self-destructive rampage, Quentin,” he whispered, breath warm against Quentin's lips.
“I'm a monster,” Quentin exhaled, tears tingling at the corners of his eyes. I've always been. A fucking monster. I hurt you. And Evan's dead because of me, too, because he wanted a world where we wouldn't be destined to kill each other. If I hadn't attached myself to him, if I hadn't made him fall for me, nothing of this would have happened, nothing, he would be alive, Logan would be alive, and – and I hurt you, I –“Beast told me that I'd conditioned you, that I had conditioned Hiro, but I hadn't understood, I hadn't – if I had I wouldn't have assaulted you that night, I wouldn't have –”
Daken's features contorted as if he had been slapped and he was trying to regain composure. “Quentin.”
“That's basically rape, what I did to you.” Quentin realised his own voice was quivering. “When you consent because there's something fucking with your brain, that's rape. I raped you.”
“Quentin –”
“Rape me.”
Daken blanched – no, he was red, he was beet red with flaring white nostrils and pale, thin lips, and he was so still; and then his face contorted, lips curling up, teeth showing in an angry snarl, and his hands were on Quentin's thighs and he was pushing them apart with force, and Quentin's outer calves were pressed hard against the bed's base, and it hurt, but the pain was good and he deserved it and –
“You want me to rape you?” Daken snarled, mere inches from him, and he was furious, and he was terrifying, and he was beautiful.
“That's what I des–”
Daken let go of him so fast that it almost gave him whiplash, his legs shaking from the strain. His ears were ringing, and he stared, hopeless, as Daken went back to his feet and caught Quentin's chin, his hand a vise.
“I may have fucked this up but you are crossing a line here, Quentin,” he said through gritted teeth, and his eyes were slits. “Think carefully about what you are going to say next.”
Quentin bit his lower lip. There was nothing to think about. He knew what he had done, he knew he had to pay. “I hurt you.”
“You're hurting me now,” Daken snarled, and his hold on Quentin's chin was beginning to really hurt. Then he shut down, quite literally. His features smoothed, and his eyes were blank, and he was staring down at him with a blank expression. “This can go both ways,” he said, voice level. “You can be the child you were in that bar, unthinking and impulsive. I can tear off your clothes and fuck you bloody till you beg me to stop, but I won't stop, I won't care, and you will pass out, a whimpering, crying mess, and then I'll throw you out in the trash can. As you desire.” He spoke slowly, every word a dart that was aimed right at Quentin's throat. Quentin felt as if he was being torn apart already, mauled and gnawed and swallowed whole by a void. “Or you can be the adult I know you are. You can sleep this off, remove the alcohol from your system, rethink what you said and whom you said it to, and tomorrow we will talk. I'm fine with both outcomes.” It hurt. This emotionless, void voice hurt. “The choice is yours. But think it through. Think long, and hard. Be honest. I'll know if you aren't.”
He waited, just waited; he let go of Quentin's chin and stared down at him and waited, waited, waited. He was one of those inscrutable stone idols of old, face impenetrable and eyes hard, and Quentin found himself thinking he was gazing into an abyss, and if you gaze long enough into an abyss, shouldn't the abyss gaze back?
“I missed you,” Quentin choked out, and no, that wasn't right. He had no right to speak like this. “I – I thought there was something, I – I don't know, it was a moment, a perfect moment – and then you told me that it wasn't real, that I had basically forced you and –” Daken wasn't acknowledging a thing he was saying, Quentin could have just as well spoken to a statue. Daken was just waiting for his answer. He wasn't interested in drama or in Quentin's pity party. It wasn't right that Quentin, after doing that to him, would also submit Daken to pointless regret that didn't mean a thing in the face of the damage Quentin had done. Daken was furious, he had a right to be, and what had possessed Quentin to think he had the right to have a say in how Daken ought to avenge himself? Daken got to decide that, and it would be slow and painful and unexpected and well deserved. There was only one thing he could say, so he said it. “I think I'm going to sleep, and –” words failed him; Quentin dug his fingers into the covers. “– and. That.”
Wordlessly, Daken went back to his knees, and removed the other shoe from Quentin's foot. Then he stood up, and caught Quentin around the waist and dragged him up – Quentin stumbled – and he reached behind him to pull the covers back, put Quentin on the bed again and shoved him under the blankets, and tucked him in – all with the brisk firmness of a nurse dealing with a particularly trying patient. Quentin was about to burst out crying. He felt humiliated and remorseful, he felt like shit, he wanted to cry in relief and cry with embarassment, with self-hate. Daken must hate him right now. Daken hadn't asked to deal with this shit –
Daken stared down at him with empty eyes. “If you need to throw up, roll over and do it on the floor,” he said slowly, voice level. “If you ruin my sheets, I will stab you.”
He walked slowly to his bathroom and turned off the bedroom's light and the bathroom's door closed with a soft click, leaving just a thin line of light visible from under the door, and Quentin sobbed once, and twice, and he burst out crying, with loud sobs that Daken must surely hear, they were surely annoying, but he couldn't stop, he couldn't – Quentin grabbed the covers and threw them over his face, and bit his fingers, hoping this would muffle them. But Daken had fucking hypersenses, and he would hear them anyway. Quentin was just making this worse, with this fucking childish behavior, and so he removed the covers from his face again, staring at the ceiling, and tried to focus on the elegant, delicate carvings barely visible in the dim light coming from the garden. He followed the lines with his gaze, trying to calm down. This he could do, this he was a master of; he was fairly accomplished in self-control. He had to be. Slowly, slowly, his sobs quieted. He waited in the darkness and the silence, wondering what would happen when Daken emerged from the bathroom, wondering what Daken was doing in there. Perhaps – probably, even – he was simply fighting the urge to return to the bedroom and tear Quentin to ribbons.
Daken re-emerged just as Quentin was about to doze off, and Quentin stiffened, grasping the covers, as Daken, now wearing sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt, approached the bed. His face was a mask, his eyes unreadable, and he just slid under the covers from the other side of the bed, and rolled to his side, back to Quentin, as far as he could be from Quentin without falling down. He hadn't said a word. Quentin wanted to apologise, wanted to tear his own face off and beg forgiveness, wanted to reach out across the bed and touch Daken's shoulder and beg till he had no voice, but the distance was insurmountable and this was just a fucking miserable, hideous situation. He should have let himself be brought to the hotel. He shouldn't have gone off after the mission. He should have never gone on mission – he should have fucking stayed at the school, safe and pampered and away from conflict, away from this, from this fucking situation – he wanted to curl in a ball and cry till he had no air in his lungs, and oh, fuck, now he was whimpering, that must be annoying, that must –
– a coccoon of blessed peace enveloped him, his breathing came a bit easier, and he just wanted to sleep now, sleep the sleep of the dead, and in a tiny, far away, lucid part of his brain he realised that he had been so annoying that Daken was forcefully putting him to sleep with the pheromones. He slept –
Daken caressed his face, a halo of flames crowning his head, and smiled at him and kissed him, slowly and leisurely, and ground against him –
You're raping me, Quentin. Just like Romulus, just like Romulus –
Daken was covered in blood, the print of a hand on his neck. He was pinned to the tree and he couldn't move, and Quentin was a void tearing his limbs apart, a bird of prey eating his entrails.
Forcing yourself upon a poor kid, Quentin.
Hiro looked up, and he was sobbing.
Let go, Quentin-san.
Quentin was screeching, holding Daken's wrists, and he bit Daken's neck and Daken moaned, and moaned, and moaned –
This was just my conditioning.
Evan sat on his tomb, legs dangling, and he looked like a kid, he looked like he looked like when everything was simple.
You're a fucking animal, you know that, Quentin?
Quentin devoured Daken's face, leaving only a skull behind.
I asked you to kill me, not to burn me alive. Do you even know how it is to be burned alive? Ask Daken, I'm sure he knows –
Apocalypse sneered at him, covered in blood, he was killing everyone, everyone –
There was someone holding Quentin tightly, someone murmuring, and Quentin blinked and it was Daken,
Ah, I chose well, the Phoenix said,
but it couldn't be Daken, because Daken hated him, and then Quentin closed his eyes and slept.
And all was well for a while, but then the little girl in the street looked up at him, and she was barely holding it together, she had rays coming out of her eyes, just like Cyclops – and then the bullet hit her, he should have seen it, he should have stopped it, he could have stopped it –
And he was woken up by a shout ringing in his ears and found himself in a bed, covered in sweat, entangled with sheets; and he thought he had shouted, but then he heard it again.
“I said no!”
Quentin rolled to his side and there was no one in the bed with him. He saw a figure out in the garden. Daken was on the phone, walking restlessly like a tiger in a cage, gesticulating wildly, and it was clear from the way his face was contorting that he was angry with whoever he was speaking to. He was shaking his head, and then he said, slowly, clearly, “You won't use that. You don't want to use that; listen to me –” and then he was speaking with a normal tone of voice and Quentin couldn't hear him anymore, the windows separating the room from the outside too thick, so he rolled to his back again and slept.
He woke up to a weight on the bed and opened his eyes, and saw Daken just as the man covered himself. He saw Daken's face just for a fraction of second, and he was looking straight at Quentin with an expression that, later, when Quentin thought about this night again – and he did, countless times – he recognised as regret.
Quentin woke up in the morning. He knew it was morning because a bright light hit him from outside; his surroundings were unfamiliar, and he was looking out of a wall that consisted entirely of thick glass, and which provided a view of a little well kept garden.
He groaned; his head hurt like hell. He stretched – the bed was enormous – and got rid of the sheets entangling him. They were humid, and quite frankly his clothes were, too, and smelled; he must have sweated profusely during the night. It was just like when he got drunk, and –
Oh, right. He had gotten drunk.
And – oh. Oh. Quentin's eyes widened as the events of the previous night came rushing back. He had fled the field without explanation, had avoided all calls from his teammates – he thrust his hand in his pocket; he recalled vaguely having put the phone in there before leaving the bar. As he turned the phone on, it began buzzing incessantly. Jesus. Missed calls and messages, that stopped coming at 3 a.m., more or less. Quentin opened the latest message, from Wolverine. I hope you're OK, Quentin. Call as soon as you can, and please remember the press conference at 10 a.m. Right, the press conference with the Director-General of Mutant Affairs. Set when things were yet to go wrong, when they had assumed that the situation would be resolved quickly and without lethal force from any side. The Director-General would probably grovel and excuse herself. He still had some time, would still be able to arrive at the Ministry quickly, were he to remember where he was exactly, and –
… and tomorrow we will talk.
Quentin froze, a flood of memories in his brain.
… rethink what you said and whom you said it to, and tomorrow we will talk.
Oh, God. He was in Daken's house, in Daken's bed, and he had – Quentin blanched. Nausea took hold of him as he recalled what he had said. The horrid things he had said. He sat up on the bed, bile surging up, but swallowed it down as he searched frantically for his shoes; they were nowhere in sight. He stood up, walked barefoot to the bathroom, and washed his face. His reflection in the mirror showed him a fucking idiot. He had fucked up, he had fucked up, how on Earth had he thought to say something goddamn awful like rape me? Oh, God. He had to find Daken and beg his forgiveness, for everything, but now also for that, too.
He went out of the bedroom and tried to retrace his steps from last night. He reached what he thought was the study, and he opened its door to look inside, but Daken wasn't there, and shelves full of books were Quentin's only greeting. Jesus Christ. Oh, Jesus Christ –
“Daken?” Quentin called as he kept walking in the corridor. “Daken?”
He found him in the gigantic living room. Daken was surrounded by holo-newspapers and other holograms, documents from the look of it, and was just constantly rotating on spot, reading and dismissing and sometimes signing. There was something odd about his face – something out of place. A movement caught the light from the outside and something reflected it, and Quentin realised with a start that Daken was wearing glasses. Glasses with thin metallic arms. Glasses.
Daken still hadn't acknowledged him, so Quentin took another step into the room. “Daken?”
Daken didn't turn towards him. “Your shoes are being dry-cleaned. They should be ready soon.”
“Okay –”
“Then you should go.”
Quentin winced.
“Look –”
“You have a press conference.”
“That's not important,” Quentin said. “I know what that pompous bitch will say.” Daken's jaw clenched. “She'll say it's not the Japanese Police's fault, that that cop had to make a choice, that it was a tragedy that couldn't be avoided, and that she hopes the X-Men's relationship with Japan will continue.” Quentin slowly approached Daken. “They always say the same things.” That is, the countries that had a Director-General of Mutant Affairs always did the bare minimum. This would maybe change, once Alison got elected. But that wasn't important now. “That's not important, what's important is –” Daken whipped on his heels to look at him, face unreadable, and Quentin swallowed and went on. “I – I remember what I said tonight. I –”
“You really should leave.” Briefly shutting his eyes, Daken removed his glasses and placed them on a table. He dismissed the holograms, and he wasn't looking at him anymore.
“No, please. I – I was drunk, and that's not an excuse, okay, but I didn't mean that. I would never – that was a fucked up thing to say, and I'm sorry I said it, so sorry, please –”
Daken looked at him. “Quentin, I don't care. I'm telling you to leave. It's for your own good. Trust me.”
“I need to talk with you about this,” Quentin begged, “Please.”
Daken just shook his head, and the big screen to their right flickered and turned on, displaying a stage with a table on it, and sat around the table were Wolverine, Idie, Billy, and Iceman.
“Is it 10 a.m. already?” Quentin asked. He hadn't taken Daken for the type to program his TV to turn on to watch a press conference. He dismissed the thought and turned towards Daken again. “You said we would talk. You said, tomorrow we will talk. I remember that.”
“Of course you're the kind of drunk who remembers everything that happens,” Daken rolled his eyes.
A hysterical fit threatened to rush from Quentin's mouth, but he bit it back. “I'm terrible like that. Can't we sit and talk about what happened? Please, let me apologise to you. Can I – can I sit?” Quentin placed a hand over the sofa that was placed just in front of the TV. Daken winced.
“No, you can't.”
“Okay. I'll stand.”
“You need to go away.”
“No.”
“I'm trying to help you!” Daken snapped, and there was some sort of noise from the TV, and the pompous Director-General Arakawa was walking on stage. She didn't go to sit at the table with Quentin's teammates, but stopped in front of it, her back to the cameras, and –
She knelt on stage. Daken cursed, and Quentin watched in horrified fascination as she bowed deeply, hands on the floor of the stage, head lowered, probably touching the floor of the stage, and thank god she was wearing pants and not a skirt. He knew that position, didn't he? He saw recognition in Idie's face, too – and all the faces of the X-Men registered varying degrees of shock. If the sounds of clamouring issuing from the television were anything to go by, the journalists were going wild.
“You did that, once, right?” Quentin winced, “I mean, Hiro did.”
“Yes.” Daken's voice was level. “That's dogeza.”
“She's apologizing?” Quentin realized his voice was filled with bewilderment. But that wasn't important just then, he had to focus on Daken, apologize to Daken –
Maiko Arakawa spoke slowly, and clearly, in English.
“I come in front of you not as member of this government, as my resignation letter lies on the desk of the Minister of Internal Affairs. I come in front of you as former Director-General, because I failed you, and I failed every Japanese mutant. I come in front of you as fellow human being, as a citizen who is shocked and dissatisfied with this government's handling of yesterday's tragedy, and countless tragedies before that. Please accept my humble apology.”
Wow. Wow, those were strong words; Quentin regretted having called her a bitch earlier. She was still kneeling, waiting for someone to acknowledge her words, and Quentin tried to reach Wolverine to prompt her, but it appeared the Ministry was protected by a telepathy-blocking shield. Thankfully, Wolverine shook out of her stupor and stood up.
“We accept your apology, Arakawa-san.”
The woman rose into a kneel and looked up at Wolverine. The flashes from the journalists' cameras in the room were clearly visible on the screen. Then, still kneeling, the former Director-General rotated on the spot to face the cameras. She was artfully composed.
“I speak now to every Japanese mutant – to every mutant who might be watching this.” She paused. “You are not safe. You will never be safe. I say this with regret, as there was a time I thought we could coexist, but you are not safe. I speak now to you in my capacity of Attorney at law. I speak now on behalf of my client, who for the moment wishes to remain hidden, for her own safety. I speak to you on behalf of Miss Raven Darkhölme, formerly known as Mystique.” Quentin gasped, and wasn't the only one, as he saw clearly on the screen the shocked faces of his teammates. They appeared frozen on spot, and the constant background chatter had died out as Arakawa spoke. But – this wasn't possible; Mystique was dead, she had died years ago, when – Quentin turned towards Daken, and the man was pale, eyes shut tightly and hands grasping the sofa's back.
“Hey, did you know this?” Quentin asked, and he hadn't the time to hear Daken's response or lack thereof.
“In accordance with the Utopia Convention, my client wishes to proclaim again the state of indipendence in the island of Madripoor. The borders are open to whichever mutant should decide to seek santuary. Nobody, I repeat, nobody will be turned down. My client,” she raised her voice, because there was chaos in there now, and Robert was standing up, and Quentin thought that he really ought to be there with them, “My client also wishes to pledge for the peaceful cooperation of the X-Men. She is not a rampant super-villain infesting the streets and murdering innocents and dissenters alike,” she was articulating slowly, staring straight at the camera, and her choice of words was odd, eerily familiar to Quentin –
It was what Quentin himself had said in the bar. You all deserve a rampant super-villain infesting the streets and murdering innocents and dissenters alike, you deserve a fucking monster ready to slaughter you like the pigs you are.
She was – she was quoting him. Quentin blanched.
“My client wishes for peaceful cooperation, and as a sign of good faith she's ready to have an agent of hers stationed at the Jean Grey School for Higher Learning, for the X-Men to use as a liaison. The agent in question is already discussing details with an X-Man –”
No, Quentin thought, no. They were trapped because this was live and if they refused that would have only strengthened Mystique's play, would only have confirmed the rumours that the X-Men didn't care about mutants and slept with the enemy –
“Akki, do you copy?”
And for a blissful, stretched moment Quentin thought that the agent was the wanna-be-superhero he and Rachel and the others had met years ago in Tokyo, but that girl had been Daken's adoptive daughter, and there was a strange return of the woman's voice, and then Daken said, clearly:
“Yes, Arakawa-san, we hear you.”
And behind the table, behind the standing, shocked X-Men, was a screen, and Quentin was faced with a startling reflection of himself and Daken standing behind the sofa, and that fucking bitch was saying, still looking straight at the camera:
“Thank you, Akki. Thank you for agreeing to meet with my client's agent, Hou-ou-sama. My client is very pleased. I do assure you, as I assure the X-Men, that she has no intention of dealing with her responsibilities in a violent fashion. Those days are far behind; she is not a monster ready to slaughter humans like pigs.”
The bitch was blackmailing him. The bitch was blackmailing him. She was threatening to devulge a disgusting video of himself drunk and beating the crap out of helpless humans; a video of himself saying those things, wishing those things upon humans. That would have been a nightmare, that would have destroyed their reputations. So Quentin braced himself and hoped the others would understand he had no choice.
“I'm sure of that, Arakawa-san.” Quentin didn't know how he managed to keep his voice calm. Not with Daken standing beside him. “I'm sure that our cooperation with Madripoor will be fruitful. I look forward to that.” Wolverine widened her eyes and then narrowed them; Quentin hoped she had understood.
She had; she went to stand beside Arakawa and offered her hand for the fucking bitch to shake. The woman took it, and they shook hands, and Wolverine said, “I'm sure your agent has still much to discuss with Phoenix; perhaps we should let them work while we answer some of these reporters' questions?”
Oh, Jubilation, I adore you. Arakawa started and looked at the camera and for a fraction of second she seemed doubtful. Yes, you fucking bitch, you have a right to be.
“Yes, we still have a lot to discuss,” Daken said calmly, “I'll contact you soon, Arakawa-san.”
The fucking bastard. The fucking – I've settled it quietly, the press won't know about your – outburst. The bastard!
Quentin didn't know, really, he didn't, how he managed to remain calm and collected as the communication was cut off, but as soon as he was sure that fucking screen wasn't showing them anymore he whipped on his heels and – it must be the stress – Daken flew backwards, hit by Quentin's field force, and collided with a fancy glass bookcase, which shook but held his weight.
Before he could approach Daken, a good number of black-wearing people swarmed into the room, guns ready, and Quentin snarled, turning to face them.
“It's all right,” Daken snapped from where he was.
One of the men hesitated. “Ryuujin?”
“I said it's all right,” Daken repeated, in Japanese. “Go. Protocol Four.”
They vanished from the room as if he had announced the end of the world, but Quentin didn't care about them. All he cared about – he turned sharply and advanced towards Daken, reaching him in a few steps, and Daken shuddered, pupils wildly dilated. He was bracing himself on the bookcase. He grinned crookedly.
“Has anyone ever told you that you're extremely attractive when you're this infuriated, Quentin?”
Quentin scoffed and got closer. He was managing, with some effort, to keep the angry screeches only in his head, to keep the flames at bay.
“Why? Why do this? I'd have no qualms if you decided to fuck with me, you have the right to fuck with me, but this –”
“Ah, you're burning with sheer incredulity –”
Pissed at himself, at this fucking situation, at the guilt for what he had done to Daken, for the situation he had put the X-Men in, Quentin grabbed Daken's shirt and snatched him closer.
Daken yelped and paled. “Easy, easy.”
What? Quentin furrowed his brows. “What the hell are you playing at anyway?” he snarled. “What do you gain from coming to the school? Why did you use –” he couldn't end the sentence. What was he going to say, anyway? Why did you use the video you said you would have made disappear? Or why did you use me?
Daken bit his lower lip. “Who said you could ever trust me, Quentin?” The words struck Quentin right in the chest. Daken let out a shaky laugh; it had a hint of despair in it. “This is all very tragic, but unless you want me to die in your arms as a finale we'll have to postpone.”
“What are you –”
Daken slid down, falling against him, and Quentin caught him instinctively.
“All right, no games,” snapped Quentin, “Answer me –”
But Daken was humming, fingers grasping Quentin's shirt. “You're so warm, Quentin.”
“What the fuck,” Quentin blurted out, exasperated. “Quit the act –”
“I think – I may have a mild concussion?” Daken's eyes rolled back in his head and he just went slack.
Quentin stared down at him, feeling something wet on his own fingers, that were pressed against Daken's back. Chilled to the bone, he looked up at the the shelves against which he had sent Daken. There was red on the glass – blood on the edged, splintered bookshelves. It was blood that was trickling down Daken's neck and wetting Quentin's fingers.
And Daken wasn't –
– he wasn't healing.