A new generation of mutants is emerging, that much is certain, and
when they emerge, they will need teachers, people who can help them
overcome their anger and show them how to use their strange gifts
responsibly. They will need us.
Emma: She drop the L word when she was looking at you while you were making her breakfast. You were using one of her shirts, your hair was a mess, and you were still a little bit asleep, a yawn was escaping from your mouth, and Emma couldn’t stop thinking how much she care about you, how damn cute you were with one of her shirts, and that she didn’t want to be anywhere else but here, with you. It hit her, she couldn’t leave without you. You were the first person that made her feel like this. She blurts it out. You hand her the plate full of pancakes and kiss her, whispering a sweet “I love you too Emma”. She couldn’t stop smiling the whole day.
They had just gotten back from Texas the day before.
Lucas’s bag is still lying, unpacked, by his bed, but he doesn’t have time for that, not after all that’s happened, because, fuck, how did he not see it before?
(Because he’s still thinking of blonde hair in the sun and laughing blue eyes under the starlit sky, and, god, how did he ever think that he wasn’t in love with her?)
He sits up in bed, abruptly, with the realization that he needs to tell her - now, before it’s too late, before something else gets in the way, before he has a chance to talk himself out of it.
(He’s running out the door and his mother is yelling after him, asking where he’s going, but he doesn’t have time for that, either, so he just says, “I’ll be home for dinner!” and slams the door shut behind him.)
His pulse is thrumming throughout the subway ride. He likes Maya Hart (he LIKES Maya Hart) and he’s going to tell her, and it’s terrifying and amazing and he’s pretty sure he’s dangerously close to having some kind of heart attack.
(He doesn’t know how he’s going to tell her, but that’s alright, because she’s Maya and he’s Lucas and she won’t mind if it’s not perfect, because, hey, they aren’t perfect, either.)
He gets off the train, but he doesn’t go to her apartment, like he wants to. Instead, he finds his way to Riley’s bay window.
(Because he’s Ranger Rick. Because he owes it to her. Because she’s still so, so important - still one of his best friends in the whole world - and he needs her to be okay with this.)
(She rolls her eyes halfway through his hastily-practiced speech and tells him that she’s at Topanga’s with a smile that says goodbye and good luck, and that’s all the permission he needs.)
do you want to take me to a movie and put our hands in the popcorn and see where this goes? || g.h.m
His hands cup her cheeks, warm from the fire and calloused from whatever farm work he got up to when he was here in Texas, and her heart stutters as he, oh-so-slowly, swipes his thumb against her cheekbone.
(She had said she wanted everything to stop, and it does, now, with Lucas Friar looking at her lips, swaying into her, leaning closer -)
He pulls away, and she knows she should’ve expected it, but she can’t help but be disappointed.
(Not just because he didn’t kiss her, but because she had hoped he would, because even after all of this, some part of her still has its hopes set on him.)
Years and years ago, at the X-Men’s last unified Thanksgiving dinner (before all of the disasters split them apart), Beast’s girlfriend Trish brought a Boysenberry pie as her contribution towards dessert. With few exceptions, no one had ever heard Bishop laugh so hard or so loud. Half of the guests were terrified… the other half were trying to figure out why Rogue suddenly kicked Gambit’s chair out from under him.
She likes to entertain the idea of soulmates, every once and a while.
She sits in her room, sketchbook spread out on her lap, the apartment just a touch too drafty to be comfortable, and she lets herself wonder if, in another life, they might work.
(In a life where she’s a tad less broken, in a world where she does not destroy everything she touches, where following her heart was an option and not a guilty, midnight fantasy recorded in doodles and sighs.)
She wonders if, in another life, there is a painter with golden hair wearing a cowboy’s flannel and humming the song they danced to at their eighth grade semi-formal. If, in another life, he had asked her to go with him because he loves her, too.
(She wonders, in the deepest, darkest corner of her heart, if maybe they could have that in this world, too.)
When she goes to sleep, it’s with her yearbook tucked close to her chest and a sketch of a cowboy on the cover of her notebook.