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It’s a busy night at the Green Lagoon. To be fair, it's like this most nights. That kinda thing happens when the booze are free and you don’t have to clock into your 9-to-5 the next morning. John Greycrow does his best to side step the drinks splashing out of Tiki cups as the weekly came of trivial gets rowdier. Although, it’s not as bad as before the “no telepathy or mind-related powers” rule was added. Those days were when you had to worry about Krakoa breaking out into a civil war. But the trivia wasn’t why he’s here. He had caught word that a certain ship made landfall late that afternoon, and from what he knew about that crew, there’s only one place they’d be after a mission.
Stopping to scan the room, his eyes soon find the beautiful, dark-haired woman he’s looking for. She sits alone at the bar still wearing her black mission uniform, which clashes against a colourful umbrella-garnished drink in her hand. He makes his way through the crowd, feeling a smile growing on his lips.
“Hey stranger,” he says, sliding onto the bar stool beside Kwannon.
She looks up from her drink, her gaze quickly turning into delighted surprise. God. He’s waiting what feels like a lifetime to see those eyes again. If he could drown in a sea of those purple and brown hues, he would do so in a heartbeat.
“John,” she smiles, throwing her arms around him. It takes John by surprise, and her strength nearly throws him off the stool.
He chuckles, holding her close as he rocks back to balance. “I’ve missed you too.”
Kwannon releases a relaxed sigh, then letting her grip loosen so that they can sit side-by-side, but with points of contact still at their knees and shoulders.
“Successful mission, I trust?” John asks.
“It was,” Kwannon says, leaning her weight against him, “Good work too. Rescued some kids from a mutant trafficking ring, got everyone to Krakoa safely.”
“Then we’ll cheers to your victory,” he says, calling over Blob for a drink. Knowing the rhythm to their routine, Blob slides a coaster, then followed by a beer bottle from halfway down the bar, which John perfectly catches.
He raises his drink towards her, “To the Marauders.”
Kwannon chuckles. “To the Marauders,” she says as the edges of the glasses kiss with a clink, and they down a sip.
She puts her drink down, the warm smile has yet to leave her lips. She looks content. Being a Marauder seems to be good for her. It’s probably more fulfilling than what she did as a Hellion, especially with the bonus of no longer being Mr. Sinister’s pawn. But he misses fighting alongside her, even during the worst days and the more gruelling mission. He misses the second-hand adrenaline of watching her fight. The way her body moved with deadly precision made John see the art and dedication behind what is often seen as nothing more than violence. He misses them having each other’s backs, the way they felt safe in each other’s trust when bullets were flying. But more than anything, he missed the quiet moments that followed the action, when they picked each other up from the carnage left after those hard days. Those were the moments when he knew that he would gladly let her hold his heart in her hands.
John scans around for a moment. “Am I stealing you away from a Marauder’s celebration?” Selfishly, he doesn’t care if he is.
Kwannon shrugs, “Technically yes, but I told them that bar trivia isn’t my thing. When you’ve been dead for years, you miss a lot of pop culture and world events, therefore are kinda useless at games like this.” And as if on cue, they hear Captain Pryde slamming her fist against the table as she begins to argue with the trivia host.
“They’re a good group, but trapped on a boat? Sometimes you just need some--”
“Peace and quiet?” John suggests.
Kwannon nods. She rests her hand atop of his thigh, her thumb absentmindedly tracing circles along the fabric of his jeans.
John gets a better chance to study her under the bar’s technicolour lights. Her face is red, a little blotchy at the apples of her cheeks. There is also a calmness in her eyes that he rarely sees outside of when they’re alone and in the privacy of one of their homes. It’s distinctly different from the tender, compassionate look she has, like when she’d console Kyle after a rough mission. Even in those moments, there is clearly a lot going on behind those eyes. Like she’s already planning the next move or searching for the answers to a problem. But right now she looks like a weight has been lifted off her shoulders.
That's when it finally clicks. “Wait K,” an amused smile plays on his lips. “Are you drunk?”
She snickers, effectively confirming his suspicions. “Maybe a little tipsy.” Kwannon takes another sip of her drink, which seems to be her first and only half-finished at that. “I’m a bit of a lightweight.”
She’s cute as a mellow, affectionate drunk. John hates to admit it, but when he’s had a little too much to drink he just gets loud and a little too confrontational. He and Alex once played darts for three straight hours after he had a few too many beers (he refused to believe that he, an expert marksman, could lose at darts to a goddamn Summers), among other drunken shenanigans he feels too old to relive.
Come to think of it, he had never seen her drink. Anytime he or Alex proposed for the group to grab a drink after a successful mission, she’d always decline. She doesn't seem like the type anyway. He could imagine that the looseness that alcohol brings wouldn’t be terribly appealing to a woman who is always so acutely aware of her surroundings.
Kwannon's head falls into his non-metal shoulder. Her cheek feels hot against his skin, almost as if she has a fever.
“I’m not sick,” she says before he could ask, (he suspects literally) reading his mind. “It’s that thing where some Asians lack the ability to break down alcohol. Causes the red face too, and increased heart palpitations. The Hand found it especially useful to make sure we weren’t breaking rules and drinking behind our teachers' backs.”
John slips a hand around her waist, drawing her closer to hers, enjoying the warmth. He leans in close to her ear, “I’m offended. Here I thought that I was causing your increased heart palpitations.”
Kwannon turns her head, pressing her forehead against his shoulder and laughs. It’s not quite a giggle, but it’s certainly the closest thing to it that he’s ever heard from her.
She’s not really the type to flirt and tease, or even call him pet names. He doesn’t mind it though. Actually, he finds himself preferring it this way. When she says something, she means it. That way he’s never left wondering about the sincerity of her words. Besides, it’s all the more thrilling when his flirting catches her by surprise. To be able to knock off-balance a woman so unflappable? It’s electrifying, and possibly the only arena he can get one over her.
Kwannon laces their hands together, muttering something softly in Japanese and chuckles to herself under her breath. She turns her head so her cheek is pressed against him again, and they stay like this in comfortable silence.
Neither of them are big on public displays of affection. Around the eyes of others, it tends to be chaste kisses and her arms linked to his as they stroll home after a night out. Their relationship is frankly no one’s business but their own. The major benefit is that it creates anticipation for when they’re home and away from prying eyes. Whether it’s cuddling on the couch as some old western plays on TV, or his hungry lips on hers as soon as the door shuts behind them. But to be this close to each, not caring who the hell looks their way? It feels nice. Besides, he wants to steal every moment with her until she has to board the Marauder again.
John places a kiss on the crown of her head. “I’ve missed you so much, Kwannon,” he says, not caring if he sounds like a broken record.
He feels her mouth open, pausing for a moment before saying, “I love you, John.” Her voice is soft so only he could hear, but she’s firm in her convictions. “And before you blame it on me being--”
“Drunk?” John teases, while it feels like his heart is doing backflips.
He can practically hear her roll her eyes. “Tipsy,” she corrects, “Know that I've had for a while. Loved you, that is.”
John barely has time to think when he finds himself cupping her cheeks in his hands, raising her up to meet his eyes. He brushes strands of her dark hair out of the way so he can see her completely. His heart races at a pace that matches hers.
“God, Kwannon. I love you too.” The words feel like warm honey on his tongue, which he savours as they pass through his lips. “I love you,” he says again, enjoying the way it sounds.
She smiles, and he swears her face blushes a shade more red.
Then their lips meet, not knowing who leans in first. I love you, I love you, I love you, he thinks, hoping that she’s peeking into his mind.
Breathless and lips tender, they rest their foreheads against each other. Their warm breaths intermingle and the noisy bar fades into the white noise. I love you, too, he hears Kwannon’s voice in his head. The quiet moment is interrupted by her yawn, her hands reaching up to cover her mouth.
“Call it a night?” he asks, with a chuckle.
Wordlessly, she nods, then leans in to give him another quick peck. Leaving their drinks unfinished, Kwannon and John walk under the stars to his place. Kwannon tries to chalk up her uneven steps to her tiredness, while John argues otherwise. Sleep comes easy in each other’s arms, as the sound of waves rolling against the shore lulls them good night.