Who me, royal?
Grand Duke Mikhail Loganovich.
Of Russia, no less. He'd looked it up. He'd been Google'ing since he'd gotten the news and trying to absorb it all so he wasn't so uninformed the next time. Probably a useless exercise, but he had to do something.
American boys didn't grow up wanting to be king of anything but the baseball diamond.
Twenty four hours into the Romanov Joke, as he liked to think of it, and he still had no idea what to do about it. His head dictated he take it in hand and exert some control but he was clearly out of his depth. What had he been raised to do, anyway? Fight, spy, keep a low profile. So low that this one gossip column was the only time his name had ever made it into print in connection with Anya or Mom. And Dad. Oh man. A little more in depth checking would expose Dad as a teacher at Xavier's Institute for Higher Learning and maybe put the school under media scrutiny until the next actress or singer exposed herself getting out of a car at a NYC club.
Fifteen minutes of fame. He could only hope it was normal time and not some alternate universe.
Hearing the news and seeing his plans badly singed around the edges if not going up in smoke had him out on the terrace in the middle of the night with a bottle of vodka thinking way too hard. Worrying that the relationship that had managed to survive so far with Mom and Anya was gone. Figuring out if it was worth trying to pursue a dream to have the kids' community center if he wasn't even going to be around. Although there had to be mutant kids in Russia, right? He could be the royal family's poster child for Mutant Equality.
Wait till they find out how long this particular Grand Duke would live.
He chuckled mirthlessly and knocked back another shot. He could drink vodka like a Russian. Just couldn't hold it like one.
Anya would be okay. Princess Stark always had a lot of press no matter where she went. She'd handle it like the pro she was and her life would move on to MIT and Stark Inc. As much as he wanted to hide on this one, if it would give Anya her chance to pursue her ultimate goal, he'd play the good little prince and step up to firing squad... uh... throne. He'd take a few lessons from Princess Brat's example.
There wasn't anybody he could talk to about this, was there? Not Dad. He was totally involved with getting Emily settled and that was more important now. He talked to Emily a few minutes every evening before Darlene had her chance to tell the little girl bedtime stories. Misha remembered the phone conversations with Mom when he was a squirt about Emily's age. She'd always seemed to be working and the calls had been important to him then. Telling her about his day before he went to sleep was an adventure, or so it seemed then. Emily didn't have the security of knowing her mother was coming back like he had, so a few minutes of his time every evening was a small thing he could do for her.
Talking to Mom was out. She was undergoing her own crisis with the idea of being Tsarina. It wasn't fair to dump on her when she was just as ambushed by it all as he was. Even more, because more was expected of her. Mom was a check in and a love reminder, groceries in the fridge, a hug and a kiss, and instructions to call if he needed anything. He'd remembered to send flowers and chocolates for Valentine's Day, but they all seemed to be doing a lot of phone tagging, especially since the assassination attempts. Checking up, checking in, stay safe, I love you too...
Doc Samson would have a field day if he talked about his family His appointments with Samson were generally him talking only about Red Room and what he could remember, and Doc trying to lead him around to the subject of family. He couldn't help it. His family was what it was, and as long as it worked he didn't care to delve into it. What he wanted was the Red Room director's head so badly he could taste the vengeance. Maybe this royal joke was a way to get it.
Grandpa Ivan was too pleased with the idea of them on the throne. Xavier was out of the question. He was not going to lay any of this on Hana's shoulders. She had enough trouble going on with her family trying to make up their minds if she was abandoning them or he was luring her away. The joke was on them. He wasn't a keeper. She'd realize that in about a year, maybe sooner with this royalty business going on, and then it would be an amicable parting. His shelf life appeared to be about a year; had been since his first girlfriend at age thirteen. He was probably more like Dad than anybody expected. Dad wasn't a keeper either.
Was it starting to snow again? He peered up at the dark sky. Through the alcohol haze he thought he felt dots of cold on his face. Ah well. It snowed a lot in Russia. Vodka and snow.
He'd conquer the snow. Vodka... might conquer him.
Of Russia, no less. He'd looked it up. He'd been Google'ing since he'd gotten the news and trying to absorb it all so he wasn't so uninformed the next time. Probably a useless exercise, but he had to do something.
American boys didn't grow up wanting to be king of anything but the baseball diamond.
Twenty four hours into the Romanov Joke, as he liked to think of it, and he still had no idea what to do about it. His head dictated he take it in hand and exert some control but he was clearly out of his depth. What had he been raised to do, anyway? Fight, spy, keep a low profile. So low that this one gossip column was the only time his name had ever made it into print in connection with Anya or Mom. And Dad. Oh man. A little more in depth checking would expose Dad as a teacher at Xavier's Institute for Higher Learning and maybe put the school under media scrutiny until the next actress or singer exposed herself getting out of a car at a NYC club.
Fifteen minutes of fame. He could only hope it was normal time and not some alternate universe.
Hearing the news and seeing his plans badly singed around the edges if not going up in smoke had him out on the terrace in the middle of the night with a bottle of vodka thinking way too hard. Worrying that the relationship that had managed to survive so far with Mom and Anya was gone. Figuring out if it was worth trying to pursue a dream to have the kids' community center if he wasn't even going to be around. Although there had to be mutant kids in Russia, right? He could be the royal family's poster child for Mutant Equality.
Wait till they find out how long this particular Grand Duke would live.
He chuckled mirthlessly and knocked back another shot. He could drink vodka like a Russian. Just couldn't hold it like one.
Anya would be okay. Princess Stark always had a lot of press no matter where she went. She'd handle it like the pro she was and her life would move on to MIT and Stark Inc. As much as he wanted to hide on this one, if it would give Anya her chance to pursue her ultimate goal, he'd play the good little prince and step up to firing squad... uh... throne. He'd take a few lessons from Princess Brat's example.
There wasn't anybody he could talk to about this, was there? Not Dad. He was totally involved with getting Emily settled and that was more important now. He talked to Emily a few minutes every evening before Darlene had her chance to tell the little girl bedtime stories. Misha remembered the phone conversations with Mom when he was a squirt about Emily's age. She'd always seemed to be working and the calls had been important to him then. Telling her about his day before he went to sleep was an adventure, or so it seemed then. Emily didn't have the security of knowing her mother was coming back like he had, so a few minutes of his time every evening was a small thing he could do for her.
Talking to Mom was out. She was undergoing her own crisis with the idea of being Tsarina. It wasn't fair to dump on her when she was just as ambushed by it all as he was. Even more, because more was expected of her. Mom was a check in and a love reminder, groceries in the fridge, a hug and a kiss, and instructions to call if he needed anything. He'd remembered to send flowers and chocolates for Valentine's Day, but they all seemed to be doing a lot of phone tagging, especially since the assassination attempts. Checking up, checking in, stay safe, I love you too...
Doc Samson would have a field day if he talked about his family His appointments with Samson were generally him talking only about Red Room and what he could remember, and Doc trying to lead him around to the subject of family. He couldn't help it. His family was what it was, and as long as it worked he didn't care to delve into it. What he wanted was the Red Room director's head so badly he could taste the vengeance. Maybe this royal joke was a way to get it.
Grandpa Ivan was too pleased with the idea of them on the throne. Xavier was out of the question. He was not going to lay any of this on Hana's shoulders. She had enough trouble going on with her family trying to make up their minds if she was abandoning them or he was luring her away. The joke was on them. He wasn't a keeper. She'd realize that in about a year, maybe sooner with this royalty business going on, and then it would be an amicable parting. His shelf life appeared to be about a year; had been since his first girlfriend at age thirteen. He was probably more like Dad than anybody expected. Dad wasn't a keeper either.
Was it starting to snow again? He peered up at the dark sky. Through the alcohol haze he thought he felt dots of cold on his face. Ah well. It snowed a lot in Russia. Vodka and snow.
He'd conquer the snow. Vodka... might conquer him.