(no subject)

[cat_13145]

Title: House of M:  Surviors
Author: cat_13145
Disclaimer: Marvel owns it all!
Comic: House of M/ Captain America?
Spoilers: (if applicable) Only for very briefly for Captain American 10. Oh and if you have no idea about the House of M
Pairing/Characters: Bucky/ Toro, Wolverine, Anne Hammond (Torch's wife), various others referenced.
Rating: PG 13

Summary: Suriving the House of M
Author's Notes: Sequel to Man for all seasons, Seasons in the sun and An Innocent Man. For ani bester and ladyblkrose  who both asked for a sequel. If anyone can suggest anywhere else I could post it, I'd be really grateful. It's a bit different to my normal style and unbetaed, so let me know how it works out.

 

 

She was alone now.

Madeline had offered to come with her, but the woman was a stranger, the only connection they had now gone.

The medal sat in a box on the desk, The Xavier, the highest honour Genosha could bestow on a non mutant. She could still hear Magneto extolling her husband’s bravery at the funeral, while her own eyes searched the crowd.

She had hoped he’d come.

Sighing, she stepped into what had been Jim’s study. There was no point in keeping this. They had been friends, but more than that...She sighed again, hugging herself. What was she going to do?

She didn’t want to stay here, but she didn’t want to move, just in case....

Say it, her brain ordered, In case Toro comes home. She walked over to the desk. Why would he? She didn’t even know if he was alive, he might have been killed by a sentinel or anti mutant thugs, or...the list of nightmares she’d had for nearly three decades now threatened to overwhelm, and she sank into Jim’s chair.

It felt wrong, fitted as it was to the shape of his body. After Toro had left, they’d stopped sleeping together.

She wasn’t sure why, Jim had just stopped coming to her bed, and she hadn’t dared ask him why. Scared, she admitted it to herself now, scared if she did, he’d leave to find Toro.

She moved slightly, jumping slightly at the crackle of paper. What on earth...?

She slid her hands along the edge of cushion, feeling something solid and sharp. Slowly she pulled it out.

It was a photograph, an old one, crinkled from the number of times that it had been shoved into its hiding place, yellowed with age and smudged with water that must have come from tears. Despite that, she could just make out the subject, two young boys grinning at the camera.

She stood alone in the middle of the room, the apathy that had haunted her since the funeral, since the ceremony suddenly gone. In its place was a deep and all consuming anger.

At Toro for leaving, at Jim for dying without telling her that he was worried and sadden as much as she was by his departure, at Bucky for his words, at Jim, at Steve, at Namor, at herself for not being able to reach either of them.

In the middle of her husband’s study, surrounded by the things he’d loved, Anne Hammond raged and wept.

 

 

 

******

Bucky had left before it was properly light. No long goodbyes, just a quick peck on the cheek and the cold twang of his dog tags, before he was gone.

Toro had lain in the bed, wrapped in sheets that smelled like his lover, until Hunger drove him from them.

He wandered into the kitchen pouring cereal into a bowl and tried to get control of himself.

“He’s not gone that long.” He muttered to the room. “Barely six weeks. That’s shorter than his shifts on the Helicarrier. And you could have gone with him if you wanted.” He shuffled over to the fridge and took out the milk. “Plenty of agents do it, when their other half is on the Genosha shift.” He shivered slightly. Strange how he felt less cold in the frozen wastes of Russia than in his own apartment now that Bucky wasn’t here.

“Jonathon Webb does,” he muttered, moving around the kitchen. “So does Bobby Drake. And Jeanne Marie and Mystique, but they’re both agents that doesn’t count.”

He stood in the centre of the kitchen shivering. He knew he should get dressed, and head out. Jessica Jones had been at him at least three times for an interview, The Institute at Westminster had left a message asking him to get in touch about a student who they thought he might be able to help, and Namor was always telling him he was welcome to visit. Well, not in those words, but he’d learnt to speak Subby long ago.

In short, there was plenty for him to be doing.

Instead, he headed back into their bedrooms, wrapping himself in sheets that smelt like Bucky and then headed into the living room.

Bucky always rolled his eyes when Toro selected one of the old cartoons, and on a level, Toro could understand why.

They could between them recite all the lines and DVD quality couldn’t’ compete with Jim trying to explain everything in them to Namor, and Steve shhing the pair of them.

But Toro still loved them, love the reassurance that the good guys would win, that the prince would kiss the princess and she’d wake up, that the blue fairy would make the puppet real, that they’d reach the dog pound in time.

In a world that had changed beyond recognition, it was...comforting. A promise that Bucky would come back.

So, he wrapped himself in the blankets, and pushed play. As the song extolled the virtues of some night long ago, he breathed deeply, inhaling the scents.

Bucky might only be gone for six weeks, but it was going to be a long six weeks.

 

*****

 

 

The right eye was so swollen; the kid could hardly open it. The cut on the lip had needed three stitches.

The blue eyes met Logan’s in the locker-room mirror.

“It doesn’t get easier does it?”

And, because while he’s done a lot to this kid, he’s never lied to him, he grabs a washcloth and indicates one of the benches.

“No.”

 

*****

 

 

There were differences now. It was enviable.

They were both older, taller, more experienced.

He had accepted that Toro no longer fit snugly less than one arm, just as Toro had accepted the way he’d pull away and wince when hands trailed over the star scar on his arm.

He adjusted to the lack of asbestos on Toro’s skin, in the same way the other adjusted to the leather from the SHIELD Uniform.

There were other changes, but he didn’t realise how much they were, until one evening after a long shift.

He was lying still, gazing up at the ceiling and petting Toro, when he realised that Toro’s breathing had changed. From deep, sensual inhales, to suspicious snuffles.

“What?”

“You smell different.”

He resisted the desire to roll his eyes, while mentally going through a check list. Toro refused to believe that he and Tasha were just colleagues, but she had hugged him briefly. The mission had been such a mess, that even Mystique had placed a hand on his shoulder, when she made a comment about not beating himself about the casualties.

He’d spoken to Logan before he left, sure he would have mentioned if he smelt like a chemical factory?

“Different?” He asked, casually he hoped.

“Yeah.” Toro muttered, sniffing around his neck and hair. “Like you used to.” He sat up, frowning down at the other man. “Have you being smoking?”

“No,” He paused, frowning, suddenly afraid. “But Logan was. I spoke to him before I left.”

It’s a lie, but it has to be. He can’t risk Toro if what he, Logan and Nick are up is discovered.

Toro nodded, apparently accepting the story. “It’s weird.” He said, lying back down. “I hadn’t realised how much you did smell of tobacco.”

Bucky shrugged. “Everyone smoked back then. Only in the seventies it really started to stop.” Not that it was that noticeable in the SHIELD cells. Someone always had a cigarette or a lighter to torture the mutants.

Toro nodded. “I don’t like the scent.” He admitted quietly.

Bucky paused. He tried to remember the scent of Steve’s pipe, as they sat in hotel rooms on missions, the smoky atmosphere of the dance halls, Toro’s shy smile coming at him through the fog. But these memories seem too far back, compared to screams of agony, and the stench of burning flesh mixed in with the tobacco, the taunting words of the guards.

“Me neither.” He muttered, kissing Toro softly.

*****

 

 

 

He’s no idea how he avoided being sent to the camps. Neverland or Maryland, or the base up in Canada.

Logan got sent there, couple of months in the seventies. Nick got him back, but it was obvious something had changed.

And he didn’t just mean the metal sticking out of him.

 Logan was silent. Not even a grunt or a moan. Somehow, that was worse than if he’d been screaming in the night. Bucky still shivered sometimes when he remembered those eyes. . Eyes were dead, like he given up hope. Eyes that screamed and howled in the night.

Somehow, in their cages, Logan had pulled himself together. Healed or at least managed to keep his head together.

Bucky had no idea how he’d done it. Just one night, heard a voice from the direction of Logan’s cell asking a guard about the hockey score. It had been the Night of the miracle on ice, USA vs. Soviet Union. SHIELD had been talking about little else, even in the cells they’d heard rumours about it.

The guard must have been as surprised as Bucky, because he answered almost civilly. USA 4. Soviet Union 3.

Logan had nodded. It had been the last words he could swear that Logan said. Or at least the last words he said in English.

Sometimes, when he saw Logan sitting with his team or interviewing a witness, he couldn’t swear that they weren’t the last truthful words, Logan had said.