Work Text:
Victor ducks, dodging flying debris as artillery strikes like rolling thunder. Light flashes and the soldiers around him fall to the ground in unison, clutching their helmets. He looks to Jimmy. He’s pulling a piece of shrapnel from his cheek. Victor grabs him roughly to remove the piece lodged in his temple.
“Wear your helmet,” Victor hisses, “Or I’ll take your head off myself” The threat is empty. It is now at least. Sprays of dirt hit them as Jimmy shrugs his hand away, baring his teeth at his brother.
Another shell hits the edge of their dugout. Victor wakes up.
It’s raining outside. The walls of his shack creak in the howling wind, lighting followed closely by thunder. the storm’s just overhead. He’s sweating, claws dug into the thin mattress beneath him. Victor glances out the window, senses coming to him slowly in his shaken state. Strange. Dreams rarely disturb him like this. He rarely dreams at all. Maybe it was the thunder.
Victor kicks his legs over the side of the bed, attention suddenly snapping to the scent of someone new. Familiar, but new. His mind still moved at half speed, interest piquing. the walls of his home shake with the thunder overhead. Shambling towards the front door, he spots a small figure through the window. A child? It couldn’t be Mystique, he reasons. The shapeshifter usually doesn’t have a scent. Only the lingering smell of Magneto and his goons. Besides, he’s pretty sure she’s been dead for years.
The girl standing before him is soaked, greasy hair sticking to her face. There’s a certain hardness to her features, a determination. She does smell familiar. It’s strange. She smells like Jimmy.
“There ain’t no handouts here. Get lost, kid. More lost than you already are.” He wrinkles his nose at her, bearing a threatening fang. The girl doesn’t move. Her hands shake, just slightly, wrapped tightly around the straps of her backpack. She must be freezing. She doesn’t respond.
“I said get lost, kid! The hell do you want?” He bristles. She stares. He can smell just a whiff of fear on her, hear her heartbeat increasing. He couldn’t care less. Victor doesn’t like loiterers.
“You are Victor? Sabertooth?” The girl’s voice is small, but solid. Victor nods, waiting for her to continue. “Mi nombre es Laura. I am your niece.”
He laughs. All teeth and raspy wheeze, and he sounds like Logan, and it only hardens her features further.
“Niece? Sure, and I’m the goddamn president of the United States.” Laura wrinkles her nose at him, the same way he did to her. She holds out her hand, clenching it into a fist. Victor nods, eyeing the way her claws glisten in the rain.
“You sure have his claws. If Jimmy's your daddy, where is the stupid bastard? He must be senile if he’s sent you here.”
“He did not send me.” Her mouth is a thin line. Victor starts to recognize the strange underlying smell about her, the smell of a corpse. Of blood. Gunpowder. It’s all old. She’s been walking for a long time.
“Where is he then? Saving the world I assume?”
“Mi padre esta muerto. He is dead.”
Victor stares at her for a long time. His expression is unreadable, body language stiff. He walks into the house and leaves the door open.
Laura follows him almost timidly, movements slow. She drips on the wooden floors, looking around the small house. Victor’s hulking figure is digging around in a linen closet, bringing her a towel and a change of clothes.
“Dry off, you’ll ruin the floor.” His voice is still gruff, but there’s no bite left in it. She meets his eyes, but they’re looking past her. He looks tired. And old. She doesn’t need enhanced senses to smell the numb grief on him.
“Sleep on the couch.” She watches him wander around, shambling his way to a cupboard and pulling out bread, peanut butter and jelly. He returns to his room and shuts the door behind him. Laura stares at it. She stares at the towel in her hands, at the old shirt and shorts. She knows everything in her backpack is soaked through. She’ll lay it all out to dry before she goes to sleep. She’s so very tired. She feels like she’s been traveling for months, years. The towel is soft on her face and hair, and she sinks onto the couch, enjoying the small comfort it brings. She’s too tired to even take the offered food. It will be there tomorrow. She hopes.