Ezekiel
Title: Ezekiel
Universe: That Damn MPreg
Rating: PG
Summary: The trouble with people leaving is that they usually leave families behind them. Sequel to Last Dance.
“You’re the Crimson Wizard, then?”
The accent was decidedly British, and it belonged to a lanky young man in a black leather jacket with expressive, almond shaped eyes and a thatch of curly brown hair. Under other circumstances, he might have been classified as Sex on Legs, with his strong jaw and brooding stare, but right now he was radiating nothing so much as nervous energy.
“And you’d be Ezekiel Starsmore,” Bobby said, flicking invisible lint off his cape. “You want to know about your sister.”
The younger man rocked back on his heels a bit, suddenly wary. “Zeke,” he said.
“Bobby.” He pushed his cowl back, meeting Zeke’s eyes. “I can’t tell you anything everyone else hasn’t already. If you want real answers, you have to ask her.”
“She’s not exactly around for asking,” Zeke said, “and you’re the last person who saw her before…”
“Allow me to correct you.” Bobby held up a finger. “When Angel came back with Dex, she was already Apocalypse’s creature. He let her say goodbye. That was it.”
Zeke shoved his hands into his pockets, lips pressed into a thin line. “Why didn’t she say goodbye to her family, then?” he blurted out.
“I’m not a telepath,” Bobby sighed. “All I can do is guess why. Maybe he didn’t give her enough time to see anyone else.”
“Dex said you knew this would happen, that you met her on that roof,” the mutant accused.
“Dexter’s spent the last week in the bottle. He says lots of things when he’s drunk.”
“You,” Zeke accused, stepping into Bobby’s personal space, “knew. You knew what she was going to do. And don’t you bloody lie to me.”
“I can’t stop people from doing stupid things,” Bobby said, not backing down. “I’m sorry for what you’re going through, bit I can’t help you, and getting mad at me won’t fix things.”
***
Maybe going out drinking wasn’t the best idea Zeke had, but he couldn’t think of anything better to do. The beer was little better than cold, watered down horse piss, but it did the job. By the time he staggered outside, he was feeling no pain.
He staggered right into a black haired man who caught him with a sigh. “Why is it people think drinking is the solution to their problems?”
“You’re worried about me,” Zeke said, blinking at the man. He looked only sort of familiar, but his mind… oh, he knew that mind. “Bob.”
“C’mon, Ezekiel. Lets get you somewhere you can sleep it off.”
It took all of five seconds for them to teleport from the bar to the Tower, and another thirty for Zeke to empty his stomach all over the front of Bobby’s pants and shoes. “Sorry…” he groaned.
“It’s alright,” Bobby assured him, and it was, because the vomit wasn’t there anymore. Zeke looked up and watched the other man’s hair fade from black to white, which only made him feel nauseous again.
“Yur’a shapeshifter,” he groaned.
“Has anyone ever told you your accent gets really thick when you’re drunk?”
“You think I’m hot.”
“Please stay out of my head.”
“You want to shag me,” Zeke giggled.
“And this is why I hate empaths.”
“I am very shaggable.
“You are very drunk.”
“I’d shag you.”
“Go to sleep, Ezekiel.”
***
“Now,” Zeke told himself as he studied the unfamiliar ceiling above him, “I was very drunk when I went to sleep. And yet, I am lacking a hangover.” He sat up, studying the unfamiliar bedroom. There were band posters stuck up on the walls, dirty clothes piled up in a corner, and a couple of framed pictures on the dresser.
All told, it looked very normal.
Zeke rolled out of the bed and padded over to the dresser, picking up one of the photos, confirming his suspicion as to his location. He put the picture back down and wandered out into the living room.
“I assume I’ve got you to thank for the no hangover thing.”
Bobby didn’t look away from the blank canvas in front of him. “It seemed like a good idea to sober you up, and it’s easier to do something like that when a person is unconscious.”
“Well… thanks, mate.” Zeke looked around, noting the paintings that lined the walls. “You do these?”
“Everybody’s got to have a hobby.”
Zeke ambled over to one of the paintings, a portrait of a young Eurasian woman with blue streaks dyed in her hair. He vaguely recognized her as one of the Young Avengers, the one the news called the Streak, and his sister referred to as Ray-Ray. “You’re good,” the mutant said, and felt a small flush of pleasure radiate off the blonde. “How’d you get her to sit still? Angie always said she was a real twitchy one.”
“I work from memory, mostly.”
“You’re really good.” He brushed his fingers down Ray-Ray’s jaw line, then quickly pulled his hand back when he realized that instead of feeling paint, he’d felt canvas. “What the-”
He heard Bobby’s chuckle, and felt his wry amusement. “Reality warpers don’t need paint.” The empath watched as color spread across the canvas in front of Bobby.
Browns and hints of red formed into messy curls, while pale pinks turned into a face with a peaches and cream complexion that would burst into flames upon direct contact with sunlight, while darker colors became a pair of eyes framed by sooty lashes.
“My nose isn’t that big.”
“I call ‘em like I see ‘em.”
Universe: That Damn MPreg
Rating: PG
Summary: The trouble with people leaving is that they usually leave families behind them. Sequel to Last Dance.
“You’re the Crimson Wizard, then?”
The accent was decidedly British, and it belonged to a lanky young man in a black leather jacket with expressive, almond shaped eyes and a thatch of curly brown hair. Under other circumstances, he might have been classified as Sex on Legs, with his strong jaw and brooding stare, but right now he was radiating nothing so much as nervous energy.
“And you’d be Ezekiel Starsmore,” Bobby said, flicking invisible lint off his cape. “You want to know about your sister.”
The younger man rocked back on his heels a bit, suddenly wary. “Zeke,” he said.
“Bobby.” He pushed his cowl back, meeting Zeke’s eyes. “I can’t tell you anything everyone else hasn’t already. If you want real answers, you have to ask her.”
“She’s not exactly around for asking,” Zeke said, “and you’re the last person who saw her before…”
“Allow me to correct you.” Bobby held up a finger. “When Angel came back with Dex, she was already Apocalypse’s creature. He let her say goodbye. That was it.”
Zeke shoved his hands into his pockets, lips pressed into a thin line. “Why didn’t she say goodbye to her family, then?” he blurted out.
“I’m not a telepath,” Bobby sighed. “All I can do is guess why. Maybe he didn’t give her enough time to see anyone else.”
“Dex said you knew this would happen, that you met her on that roof,” the mutant accused.
“Dexter’s spent the last week in the bottle. He says lots of things when he’s drunk.”
“You,” Zeke accused, stepping into Bobby’s personal space, “knew. You knew what she was going to do. And don’t you bloody lie to me.”
“I can’t stop people from doing stupid things,” Bobby said, not backing down. “I’m sorry for what you’re going through, bit I can’t help you, and getting mad at me won’t fix things.”
***
Maybe going out drinking wasn’t the best idea Zeke had, but he couldn’t think of anything better to do. The beer was little better than cold, watered down horse piss, but it did the job. By the time he staggered outside, he was feeling no pain.
He staggered right into a black haired man who caught him with a sigh. “Why is it people think drinking is the solution to their problems?”
“You’re worried about me,” Zeke said, blinking at the man. He looked only sort of familiar, but his mind… oh, he knew that mind. “Bob.”
“C’mon, Ezekiel. Lets get you somewhere you can sleep it off.”
It took all of five seconds for them to teleport from the bar to the Tower, and another thirty for Zeke to empty his stomach all over the front of Bobby’s pants and shoes. “Sorry…” he groaned.
“It’s alright,” Bobby assured him, and it was, because the vomit wasn’t there anymore. Zeke looked up and watched the other man’s hair fade from black to white, which only made him feel nauseous again.
“Yur’a shapeshifter,” he groaned.
“Has anyone ever told you your accent gets really thick when you’re drunk?”
“You think I’m hot.”
“Please stay out of my head.”
“You want to shag me,” Zeke giggled.
“And this is why I hate empaths.”
“I am very shaggable.
“You are very drunk.”
“I’d shag you.”
“Go to sleep, Ezekiel.”
***
“Now,” Zeke told himself as he studied the unfamiliar ceiling above him, “I was very drunk when I went to sleep. And yet, I am lacking a hangover.” He sat up, studying the unfamiliar bedroom. There were band posters stuck up on the walls, dirty clothes piled up in a corner, and a couple of framed pictures on the dresser.
All told, it looked very normal.
Zeke rolled out of the bed and padded over to the dresser, picking up one of the photos, confirming his suspicion as to his location. He put the picture back down and wandered out into the living room.
“I assume I’ve got you to thank for the no hangover thing.”
Bobby didn’t look away from the blank canvas in front of him. “It seemed like a good idea to sober you up, and it’s easier to do something like that when a person is unconscious.”
“Well… thanks, mate.” Zeke looked around, noting the paintings that lined the walls. “You do these?”
“Everybody’s got to have a hobby.”
Zeke ambled over to one of the paintings, a portrait of a young Eurasian woman with blue streaks dyed in her hair. He vaguely recognized her as one of the Young Avengers, the one the news called the Streak, and his sister referred to as Ray-Ray. “You’re good,” the mutant said, and felt a small flush of pleasure radiate off the blonde. “How’d you get her to sit still? Angie always said she was a real twitchy one.”
“I work from memory, mostly.”
“You’re really good.” He brushed his fingers down Ray-Ray’s jaw line, then quickly pulled his hand back when he realized that instead of feeling paint, he’d felt canvas. “What the-”
He heard Bobby’s chuckle, and felt his wry amusement. “Reality warpers don’t need paint.” The empath watched as color spread across the canvas in front of Bobby.
Browns and hints of red formed into messy curls, while pale pinks turned into a face with a peaches and cream complexion that would burst into flames upon direct contact with sunlight, while darker colors became a pair of eyes framed by sooty lashes.
“My nose isn’t that big.”
“I call ‘em like I see ‘em.”