Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

.cable

Sometimes it's a relief to get a change of scenery. The bar near the Shatterdome is used to the Jaeger Academy and its mutants, and the human bartender serves up a decent whisky on the rocks without even looking twice at Nathan's scar.

He isn't in the mood for company, today, but he knows that the Shatterdome exists only under the sufferance of its host city, and he's carefully friendly when people come up to him to ask him questions. Still, Nathan's getting restless by the time the bar's closing, but at least the alcohol's warm on his nerves, and he's growing mellow as the night grows colder.

By the time Nathan stumbles out into the snow, breath huffing into steam, he's a little unsurprised to see Wade waiting for him outside the bar, shoulder propped against a brick wall. The mercenary grins, all mayhem and mischief, and falls into step as Nathan carefully picks his way back towards the vast dark curve of the Shatterdome at the port.

"Could've blown off steam at the Kwoon room."

"Maybe I just wanted to get drunk," Nathan retorts. He can feel the touch of Wade's mind against his, but he refuses to let him through. It's a wonder that they survived Bloater's attack - a miracle that Charles had managed to relink the Drift in time. Maybe if they had been quicker-

"Look," Wade growls, narrowing his eyes, "Mystique Cerebro was pretty damaged even at the start. No blade, only one projectile weapon, and it was a goddamned particle cannon. We did fine out there. As well as we could."

"It isn't your fault."

"My fucking point," Wade snarls, and there's enough anger in his voice that Nathan comes up short, blinking, "Is that it wasn't your fucking fault either. What is this, Days of Our Lives And Jaegers? Shit happens. We stop moping and move on. Plenty more of those bastards to shoot at or stab."

"I'm a danger out on the field." His reflexes are slow, slower than Wade's, and he knows - Mother Askani - he knows how this will all end. Foreknowledge is a painful thing, the worst part of being a man out of time. So far, he has managed to change nothing.

"Yep, you're a danger to the kaiju out in the field," Wade snaps, getting a grip on his elbow and tugging until Nathan keeps walking. "Get over yourself. So what if you've done zilch against the big picture so far? You've still kept oodles of maple syrup eaters from kicking up to the Big Pancake in the Sky. Maybe that helps."

Sometimes he forgets that he has no secrets from Wade because of the Drift. Wade, too, has seen his future, of the losing war that humanity is battling against the kaiju's master race. The giant creatures are but war machines: in this time period, their masters have yet to show their faces.

When they do - that's the signal that the end has come.

"We still have time," Wade retorts, as though he's heard. "Onslaught Exodus is operational. Stage two is coming up."

"But it will fail," Nathan murmurs. Something - something else needs to be changed, but he doesn't know what, and he's running out of time. Mother Askani doesn't have very much information about the Onslaught Project.

"But it hasn't failed yet." Wade punches him in the arm, hard enough for him to wince. "So cheer up, Priscilla. The future hasn't yet happened. We're a new kill down in a new jaeger. And I'm not being fucking paid to be your psychologist. So let me in, or I'm going to kick your ass."

He has to smile at that - he always does. Nathan relinks them, his mind grasping gratefully for the familiar, effervescent touch of Wade's mind, and Wade steps into his arms even as he reaches out for him, their lips frozen cold as they kiss, noses bumping.

You give me hope, Nathan telesends, as Wade curls back into place in his mind and against his body, the puffs of their breaths mingling in the freezing chill. That, more than anything-

"Hey," Wade presses a heavy mitt over his face, playfully. "Don't get sappy on me out here, old man. My balls are going to freeze off. Let's at least get warm before you keep reenacting Days of our Jaeger Lives."

"I thought it was Days of our Lives and Jaegers." Nathan turns Wade's hand away, gets a grin for his efforts.

"Whatever. It's cold, and I have more whisky in my room. I'm not sure why we're still standing out here." Wade tugs, and when Nathan doesn't immediately move, he sighs, leaning up for another, softer kiss. "Hey. I'm still here. We're both still here."

"For how long more?"

"I don't care," Wade shrugs, and there's a nip in his kiss now, as he turns up his mouth. "As long as you're there."

Nathan sucks in a slow, shaky breath, and he closes his eyes briefly. Maybe this is what's different: he cares about this war now, because of Wade, more than he ever has, even when he grew up on the losing side of it. Maybe things will change.

.erik

It's always like this after a kill, this barely restrained anticipation-want-tension that catches them: they're always impatient when getting out of suit, almost stumbling by the time they get to Charles' room - it's closer to the drivesuit room. Today Charles is laughing when Erik shoves him through the door, but when he slams it close behind them with a thought, Charles is in his arms, the momentum knocking them both against the door, and they kiss like they're pulling into the drift, desperate and hungry.

"You're in a good mood," Erik grunts, between breaths, trying to manhandle them both towards the bed. Usually Charles is quiet after a kill, distracted: the lust is there, of course, but he's always thinking of something else. It's the violence and the death: despite everything, this still spooks Charles.

"No neural breaks today," Charles reminds him, with a grin. They got their third kill today, and although Charles is technically right, it was a near thing. He sends Charles this impression, and Charles grins at him, squeezing his shoulder as Erik deposits them both on his bunk. They kiss again, more slowly, careful and measured now: Charles is purring by the time they start on each other's clothes, their fingers fumbling, and Erik grins sharply as Charles opens the neural connection wide, their payload of sensory impressions merging together.

It gets - after that - well. Erik doesn't have much of a bar to compare Charles to, but sex with a telepath is insane. Around him, Charles' mind flicks with amusement as he nips Erik's lips and licks into his mouth, and even as Erik sucks lightly on Charles' tongue, he feels the shocky echo of sensation around his own, and Gods, he'll lose his mind if it wasn't folded around Charles'. Charles smirks at him as he rides up Erik's thigh, and Erik gasps as he feels the rough friction against his own cock.

He makes a mess of the steel drawers and the books balanced on top as he drags out the drawer and pulls the lube to him, his control shot to hell as Charles gets leverage under his heels and flips them over, licking down to close his lush mouth over a nipple, his brilliant blue eyes rich with lust and promise. The aftermath of a drift doesn't affect Charles as badly as Erik: telepaths are more or less always in drift, after all - but he's fed through with Erik's want-need-more now, and his fingers skitter and scratch as Erik hauls him up for a biting kiss, fumbling the lube awkwardly over his hands and fingers.

Charles always goes beautifully quiet whenever Erik presses his fingers into him, wide-eyed, biting down lightly on his reddening mouth. Erik kisses him, rough, chasing the touch of his teeth as he curves Charles against him: they fit together here as they fit on the drift, push-pulling at each other, sometimes slip-sliding out of sync, but he won't have it any other way.

This is always frenzied and rushed right after a kill: they're high on adrenaline and on each other and when Erik slides in, it's gritty and probably still too soon, but Charles growls and bites hard on his shoulder and he shoves in the rest of the way to the hilt with a grunt. He'll make this up to Charles later, he will - he sends Charles a jumbled sense-memory, and Charles retaliates by setting his palms against Erik's cheeks and feeding through a jolt of ecstasy, a shock of pure sensation that has him thrusting wildly and shouting his throat raw; Charles is laughing, somewhere, fey and loud and breathless, and it's always too much, this, just like the Drift - Charles is too much for him.

Erik curls against Charles' back as they catch their breath, and he growls half-heartedly as Charles skips fingers up his naked flank, his grin lazy and playful. He failed a neural handshake yesterday, with the last of Fury's list of telepaths, and in a way, he's relieved. He doesn't want to trade up Charles, shaky as their neural handshake can be if Erik doesn't watch himself. He doesn't want-

"Shh," Charles murmurs, and at the caress over his mind, Erik relaxes, nuzzling the elegant curve of Charles' shoulders. "Poor Danielle was rather relieved."

Erik snorts. Danielle Moonstar had shot him a rabbity and uncomfortable look when she had first laid eyes on him, and then had shot Charles an equally intense look of pleading. It had taken a great deal of cajoling from both Charles and Nathan to get her into the Conn-Pod to try the Drift, and her co-pilot Rahne had fussed around the drivesuit room the whole while.

"Far too many pilots are barely out of childhood," Erik says by way of response. Jean Grey, Elizabeth, Danielle, Rachel and Artie are all far too young for war. It's a pity that they're locked into it by sheer reason of their skills.

"It may change soon," Charles turns around, until he can watch Erik soberly. "The Rift bomb."

Erik settles Charles absently against him, shrugging lightly. "Rift bombs have been tried before. No one gets near the Rift without kaiju interference."

"Fury's confident about us," Charles notes, with the careful indolence of the naive, and Erik bites him on the shoulder in reproach. Charles, however, simply grins, and feeds the pain back to him - Erik winces and glowers, but then he kisses the reddened mark, feels the ghost of lips against his own skin.

Stage two of the Onslaught project. The end of the kaiju war. It seems unbelievable, and besides, Charles has never been able to hold a stable connection for more than two hours at a stretch. It'll take longer than that for them to reach the Rift from a safe drop zone. Even longer to fight its guardians.

"We're getting better," Charles points out, as Erik rubs at his hip. "And we'll get stronger."

Together, Erik echoes the word left unsaid, and small fingers close over his own, squeezing tight over his knuckles.

.wade

"I think we should get a logo," Wade tells Nate one morning as he's curled over Nate's bunk, still in the dry spot, ha, while Nate's off in the bathroom trying to get himself to look less old. Good luck with that, Nate. "Wolverine Phoenix have an awesome logo."

"We do have a logo," Nate tells him, his voice a little muffled from behind the bathroom door.

"No, that's your logo with Neena," Wade points out, with a little scowl. He likes Neena, he really does, but whoever designed the logo for Domino Cable needs to be shot in the head. Playing cards? Really? "And we should rename Mystique Cerebro, because that name? Seriously."

There's a sound of a tap, then Nate emerges, still slightly damp, and he frowns at Wade as though trying to figure out why Wade isn't dressed yet. "What's wrong with it?"

"Doesn't roll off the tongue."

"Have you brought this up with Fury?"

"I sure will," Wade says loftily, though he deflates a little, and scuttles off to use the bathroom, By the time he's done, Nathan's Future!OCD has him tidying up the room and bundling the soiled sheets into a ball. This is why Wade keeps his own room. Nathan's one looks clean and organised enough to be on the cover photo of IKEA's Shatterdome Edition.

"It's not a bad idea," Nate says, just as Wade's stumbled into a happy memory of breaking into an IKEA over in Melbourne, once, just to steal a fuck ton of meatballs.

"Meatballs?"

"What?" Nate blinks. "I meant the logo."

"Oh." Wade perks up. "I have so many ideas."

"I know that you do," Nate says dryly, "And I'm going to veto the one about the chimichangas."

"Spoilsport. That would be a good name for a jaeger with you as a co-pilot, by the way. 'Spoilsport Maximum'."

"And 'Deadpool' is a better name?"

"What's wrong with Deadpool?" Wade scowls. "It's a good name. It has the word 'dead', which is how I like my kaijus, and 'pool', which is where we normally fight the bastards."

"'Sea' would be more accurate."

"Except 'Dead Sea' is kinda a place, and 'pool' is more fun. More exciting. More us."

"Right," Nate drawls - the poor bastard's probably never seen a pool in his life, Wade realizes. The future totally sucks.

"It has its benefits," Nate finishes tidying up the sheets into a laundry bag, and then he adds, "Also, no zombie logos. And 'More Awesome Than Wolverine' will never get cleared."

"We're never going to have any fun," Wade notes mournfully, though he allows Nate to lean over for a quick peck on the mouth. He can feel Nate's retort, something about how the kaiju war isn't meant to be fun, but Nate merely smiles faintly and kisses him again, this time a little harder, before he pulls back.

"See," Wade blinks, "The future's changing already."

"It is?"

"The stick up your ass is getting noticeably smaller."

"Ah," Nate grins, and there's a sly amusement there that is not quite Nate-like.

"If you make a dick joke right now, I think my brain's going to explode."

"I thought that you liked change."

"I like change in moderation."

.charles

The kaiju are mutating, faster than jaeger tech can keep up, and the world governments are growing afraid. It's unbelievable to think that over the past few months, they've gone from eight functional Shatterdomes down to one - Hong Kong. Gone from fifteen jaeger teams to four.

Hong Kong looks more like a neon-lit slum rather than the eclectic city that Charles remembers, pre-kaiju, and he settles himself in a small, quiet eatery off a side street, warming his hands on a bowl of noodles. Just like Nathan, sometimes Charles likes to leave the Shatterdome for a while, feel the press of humanity itself against his shields.

Erik's still in the Shatterdome, discussing the strategies of the days to come with Marshall Fury and Logan, and Charles listens in absently as he tucks into dinner. He's a quarter through the fragrant hand-made noodles by the time Jean sits down beside him at the counter bench, ordering a bowl for herself, and she leans against him as he curls his arm briefly around her shoulders.

"We're losing the war," she murmurs, and Jean looks older than her age, far more tired than she should be.

"We've been losing the war for a long time," Charles admits, because there's no point faking sentiment in front of one of his own students, and because they've lost so many of their own now that to try to sound positive about their situation seems almost disrespectful.

Jean nods slowly, as though she hadn't even needed the confirmation. "Do you think that Richards' plan will work?"

"Tony doesn't think so."

Jean pulls a face. "Tony thinks a lot of things."

Charles has to agree on that point, and besides, K-Science is something outside of Tony's usual ambit of expertise. "It's not our concern," he tries telling Jean soothingly.

"It's Logan's concern, which means that it's mine," Jean grumbles, and stares at her hands, even as a bowl of noodles is set down in front of her. "Whatever it is, it doesn't look good."

"I wouldn't say so." Charles picks up another spool of noodles expertly with his chopsticks. Jean watches him for a moment, intent, then their minds touch, and when she starts on her own bowl, it's just as graceful.

"Why not?"

"I think we have a fair chance at the Rift." Charles opens up his shields a fraction more, allowing Jean to dive deeper.

"Onslaught Exodus may be faster than any jaeger out there," Jean notes quietly, "But it's still one jaeger. And you can't even hold the Drift for longer than three hours."

"It's getting better." Nearly four now, at last count. "It'll get better."

She allows him to reassure and calm her, and they link hands as they pick their way back through overcrowded streets, back towards the Shatterdome. Hong Kong seems subdued around them, likely expecting another K-event any minute, and there's a fatalistic touch to the minds around them. It's sobering, and Jean huddles closer as they get back to base. They hug at the berths, where all their jaegers are, and Charles nods at Mikula, the Russian telepath touching minds briefly with him before turning to speak quietly to a technician.

Wade's perched high up on scaffolding, swinging down with almost prehensile grace to greet them as they round over towards the living quarters. Behind him, the sleek, refitted form of Deadpool Cable is being upgraded with hypersonic missiles, and if Charles squints, he can still see the familiar lines of Mystique Cerebro. He should feel a pang, but he doesn't, not with Onslaught Exodus in pride of place at the end of the berths.

"You guys missed an epic bitchfest between Stark and Richards," Wade reports, grinning. "I think Stark's sulking right now, which makes him your problem, and just so you know, I kinda want him to keep working on my baby."

"I'll handle it," Jean offers, squeezing Charles' hand, and he'll be surprised at how quickly Jean and Wade take their leave if he hadn't felt Erik's presence coming out of the service lifts. Erik's irascible nature hasn't endeared him to the new teams, not that Erik cares, despite Charles' gentle attempts to get him to see things another way. As far as Erik's concerned, all the other co-pilot teams are cannon fodder, just there to clear their path.

Charles doesn't like this plan, but he isn't sure what else will work, and he's pensive as Erik draws him to his side with a hook of his arm, brushing a kiss against his mouth to chase the taste of his dinner, taking a deeper kiss when Charles curls a hand over the back of his skull. This is simple now, between them, natural, and perhaps the rest of it will come in time for the end of the world.

"Did you stop the Marshalls from tearing into each other?" Charles murmurs, with a faint smile.

"Near thing," Erik concedes - almost a joke - and Charles tugs him closer, resting their foreheads together, the touch of Erik's mind like this fever-bright in its intensity as they share the sense-memories of their last two hours apart.

Sometimes, Charles knows, Erik wakes up in the night caught in one of Charles' memories, whispering words spoken an age away on a lectern in Oxford. Sometimes Charles wakes up still dreaming that he's pretending to chase a little girl and her friends around a playground swing. The closeness of their minds should seem artificial, unhealthy, but Erik breathes out, at the exact moment that Charles does, and for a moment, the sync slides perfect, and Charles allows himself the luxury of hope.

Tomorrow, they'll save the world.