Disclaimer: Quote in the summary is from Xena: Warrior Princess. Cue uber-nerd accusations. :D
This is what I think might've happened if we'd seen just a little more of Pax Romana.
Will's body was heavy with exhaustion, the strain of the past few weeks making itself known. His eyes stung with needed sleep, and bit back a yawn even as he zombied to Magnus' office. She wasn't there. The Big Guy had already told she had yet to go to her private chambers, and the security feeds had revealed nothing but empty labs below. Which left only one place left she could be.
Officially, their trip to Hollow Earth- Praxis, he corrected himself- had been a success. They'd stopped the bad guy, saved the world, and made contact with a technologically advanced culture. Oh, and they weren't dead. Definitely a check in the success column. But even so, on their return to the surface, Magnus had been uncharacteristically quiet.
He'd noticed on the trip, but when she disappeared upon reaching the Sanctuary, his suspicions had turned to full-blown concern. Even now, it niggled in the back of his mind, urging him onwards as he climbed the stairs to the roof.
He pushed the door open with a sure hand, already confident of whom he would find on the other side. And sure enough, there Magnus stood, tall and statuesque on her usual parapet, looking out over Old City with a pensive gaze. The air was cool and crisp, and her hair lifted lazily on a gentle wind.
He crossed the stonework that stood between them with quick strides, until he was up on the parapet next to her. She didn't acknowledge his presence, attesting to the disquiet he could detect in her features.
"You okay?" he asked quietly.
He'd seen her administer the radiation antidote himself, but he couldn't deny that the whole thing seemed a little bit too easy. Too easy after her getting blitzed by Jekyll and Hyde, mugged in Cambodia, and then sent on a wild goose chase all over—and under—the world…
He blamed his doubts on that small part of him that still recognized that his new life was friggin' unbelievable.
He was prepared to wait as long as it took for her to answer, since he knew she didn't often like to talk about herself. But her response came fairly quickly. He didn't know which was more worrisome—her promptness, or her reply.
"No."
Will blinked, alarm surging to the surface. His eyes raked over her form, catching the tremble in her shoulders and her tight grip on the cloth of the blanket she'd wrapped over her shoulders. His stomach clenched at the thought that the antidote hadn't done its job.
He opened his mouth to suggest going inside, to get looked over by the Big Guy, when she continued, pulling her shawl tighter around her.
"I'm angry, Will." Will knew by her soft, almost sad voice that it wasn't truly anger she felt, but hurt. "I'm a hundred and fifty-nine years old. I've lost lovers, friends… family."
Will winced, hearing the name she refused to voice.
Ashley.
But she paused only briefly. "And the only people who manage to survive don't ever linger for more than a moment at a time."
Her tone shifted at the mention of her old lover, and just like that Will realized what was really bothering her.
A conversation they had once rang in his ears, a confession she'd made in her lab after failing to find a way to return the insufferable Nikola Tesla to his immortal form.
"Druitt left again," he observed gently.
In Praxis, before Will had gotten a look inside the transport pod himself, all it had taken was one look at Magnus to know that Druitt had disappeared again. For a brief moment, she'd been crestfallen, before her mask of professional efficacy had slipped into place.
"You're alone."
She didn't respond. He watched as her eyes unfocused, and her head dipped ever so slightly, allowing a cascade of dark hair obscure her features from view. The blanket tightened across her shoulders, sheltering her from a breeze that was too warm to be the source of her discomfort.
"He didn't come home," she said finally, her voice tense. Her chin lifted, and she stared down the night with a furious stare. "I spoke to Ranna. My father has been there in Praxis, in Hollow Earth, as an honored guest for more than seventy years."
She pulled in a deep breath, as though fighting a tightness that threatened to strangle her. "He stayed there for seventy years while I spent my life believing him dead."
Will didn't know what to say in response. He'd never met Gregory. The old man had been gone by the time he'd recovered enough from the serum to be conscious of his surroundings. But Ashley had gone on and on about having met him. Magnus had remained conspicuously silent. Will hadn't pushed.
"And then, and then," her voice soured with disdain, almost wry in appreciation of the absurdity of it all. "He shows up with a Cabal beetle in his head, with no memory of me or his life with my mother. We save his life and then what? He disappears again, before the week is out."
She was fairly shaking now, and the tension rolled off of her in waves. Will remained studiously silent, sensing she needed an ear, not any platitude he could offer now.
"He leaves no word of where he's going, or if he'll ever return. I hear absolutely nothing from him at Ashley's death, or the dissolution of the Cabal. Absolutely nothing, until he invades your mind to deliver me a blasted cryptic message that warns of the end of the world as we knew it."
Magnus rounded on him suddenly, her eyes flashing. "No word of Adam or his experiments, or any details about Kanaan. Nothing but numbers and gifts he gave me over a century ago! He knew a century ago that Hollow Earth existed, and yet he said nothing of it to me!"
Her hands flashed, gesticulating in the short movements he's come to associate with her frustration. But they never lose their grip on the shawl around her shoulders. The cloth remains taut, perpetuating the tension gripping her body.
"So I follow his clues and nearly get myself killed in the process, but it's all right because in the end I manage to pull a diagnosis out of my ass and save the life of a superAbnormal. So what if I manage to clear his name in the process? Does he even think of coming home? No! He simply sends me off with a kiss and a pat to the head like a good little girl!"
The heel of her hand ground into her brow, her eyes clenched shut in self-reproach. "Augh! And I just took it! I just—I stood there and smiled! Told him to not be so cryptic the next time he sent me a bloody message!"
She shook her head viciously, as though to dispel the thoughts. But her expression remained dark, and her eyes continued to swell with tears she refuses to let fall. The corners of her mouth started to pull downwards, despite her best efforts, and she hid them beneath a shawl-covered fist.
Will felt his own chest tighten at the sight. A vulnerable Magnus was not one he saw often, and he was glad for it—it damn near broke his heart. And this, this was so far out of his league that he had no idea what to do.
Okay, he had some idea. He was a psychologist. He knew techniques, but were they appropriate for 160 year old woman? He'd already had his ass handed to him a few times when he'd tried to foist his 21st century mindset on some things regarding the secretive woman, and she was already on the edge. Her anger at her father, and at herself, could turn on him in an instant.
He'd know she really wasn't mad at him, but it would still be unpleasant.
"Why didn't you tell him any of this?" he asked finally. "Your father… do you think he wouldn't have listened? Or was it something else?"
They were dangerous questions; any question would be. But he had no advice for her. Not yet.
To his relief, her angry gaze remained fixed on the cityscape below them. "To be honest, Will, I—" She gave a sigh, and in that breath, the fight seemed to flee her body, leaving her tired and sad.
"I didn't even think about it," she followed up after a beat, her voice tired. "I was just so happy to see he was alive and well, that I was no longer dying and the Earth was no longer in danger, and Adam was finally dead… I just—It didn't even occur to me to be offended."
The blunt honesty of the confession was unexpected, but he wasn't exactly surprised. Her life, her work, revolved around facts, of seeing the truths hidden in the shadows. And she had enough wisdom to be able to turn that affinity inwards on herself.
If he were able to publish on it, his study would be the talk of community for decades.
"He's all the family I have left, Will."
Her voice was soft, but the words stung. He tried not to wince, to remind himself that no matter how much he considered her part of his family, there was no reason for him to be the same for him. He was transient, as were most of the people in her life.
But a moment later, she seemed to realize for herself how she must have sounded.
She turned to him, her eyes warm with apology. "I don't mean to say that you or Henry mean any less to me—you are both part of the family we've created, and I wouldn't have it any other way," she assured him.
"But, you have to understand Will… The time I come from, a person's bloodline was sometimes all you could rely on. It was honor, and it bound you in duty and obligation, and tied you inexorably to each other. Now, more people are concerned with whom you choose to associate with, as perhaps as it should be. Lord knows James and Nigel were more family than my father was, but…"
Her voice trailed off, and she sighed. "I can't help it, Will."
"I understand," Will returned. And he did. His own relationship with his father was strained, but that didn't mean he wouldn't have tried to change it if he had the chance. He still loved the old man.
"But he has a chance fathers today might kill for—a hundred years to spend with his daughter, to see how his child might touch the world, change it. But he doesn't want it. He'd rather stay in the same city of strangers he's been in for the past seventy years than spend time with his daughter."
Her tone darkened towards the end, but Will understood it. "To be fair, they're probably not really strangers at this point," he said, ever the devil's advocate.
She scoffed, giving a derisive eye roll. "No, I suppose not." Her lips curled into a mirthless smirk. "By now I'm sure they know him better than I do."
Silence fell over them. Will knew there was nothing he could say to make her feel better. This was so far beyond him. And from the look on her face, she knew her anger was both misplaced and juvenile. Clearly, she thought she should above the desire to have a loving father.
But if there was anything Will knew without a doubt, it was that some childhood wishes, sometimes the most simple of desires, never truly fade.
"I don't even know if he knows about Ashley."
Her voice was soft. Ashley was venerated in the Sanctuary now, and invoking her name aloud ran the risk of breaking Magnus' heart. But Will supposed she didn't need any help with that tonight. She was already vulnerable, so unexpectedly open… And he knew that her daughter was never far from her thoughts.
He reached out, his hand brushing along her elbow in a silent show of reassurance.
"I'm sure he does," he said quietly, gently. "He knew a lot more than he should have the last time he showed up. And when he saw Kate down in Hollow Earth, and not Ashley, I mean—"
It wouldn't have taken a genius to put the pieces together.
But her response was bitter, audibly angry for the first time.
"He didn't even ask. Didn't mention her at all. His own granddaughter."
"Hey," Will voiced, bringing her attention back to him. "Your Dad does care." In his mind's eye, he could see all the pieces coming together, and relief flooded him at the simple picture they created. "He loves you. He's proud of you—"
"Of continuing in his footsteps and rescuing him when it's convenient," she agreed half-heartedly.
A beat passed, and then she blinked, as if hearing herself for the first time. Her cheeks flushed at the petulant tone she'd adopted, and she looked to him apologetically.
"I'm sorry, Will," she offered, a small chagrined smile on her lips. "I'm afraid you've walked into a hundred and sixty years' worth of abandonment issues tonight."
He smiled back at her. "Hey, after everything you've seen, I think you've earned the right to have some daddy issues."
She smiled gratefully, then turned back to the cityscape laying out in front of them. Silence settled over them comfortably, the night air refreshing on their skin.
"He always was the consummate scholar," she admitted, her airy tone gentle. Accepting. "Especially after my mother died. I'm sure the Praxians appreciate his thirst for knowledge. They're well suited. Perhaps more than he and I are, at this point."
For a long moment, nothing else was said. But after a while, Will's mind began to wander, and he felt brave enough to posit a question he had thus far left alone. Perhaps, tonight, she would allow him in a little further.
"Magnus… " he began, carefully recalling her focus. "You've never said anything… about your mother."
Her brows arched, and blue eyes widened as her gaze darted to his in surprise. Belatedly, he wondered how long it had been since anyone had dared venture into this territory with her. He considered withdrawing the query, but a voice in his head reminded him that she already knew the story of his mother. That same wry voice whispered that turnabout was fair play.
For a moment, she didn't acknowledge him, and he was prepared to let it go. He was curious, but he wouldn't push. But then she sighed, and her head bowed. "She died in childbirth," she answered softly. "Delivering me. I never met her."
"So it was just you and your dad."
She nodded. "He did a remarkable job raising me, for the time. Most widowers either remarried, or sent their children to boarding school. But he loved my mother too much to ever consider marrying another, and he refused to send me away."
A smile crossed her lips, with shadows of nostalgia belying her slip into memory. "He always told me the reason my mother died to bring me into the world was that my destiny was so great, a life had to be given in return."
Will blinked in shock—no doubt Gregory Magnus had meant the words as a comfort, but… It must have been a burden, for a young girl. A lifetime of expectation to fulfill. But Magnus only shrugged. "It seems a bit melodramatic now, but it did make me feel better, as a girl." She hesitated. "A little."
Will nodded. He could see how it might, especially to a young girl trying to navigate changes in herself and society without a mother to guide her.
"Honestly, I used to wonder what might have been… had she lived."
"And?"
"Well," she started, her voice measured and even, "I think the Abnormal world would be very different today. Some things my father let slip makes me think she would not have allowed him to become so absorbed with his work. And without his single-minded devotion to the miraculous, who knows what might have slipped through the cracks."
She paused. "And she would never have allowed me to follow in his footsteps."
Will tried not to let his concern show. She was right—in that time period, Magnus probably would have followed the established gender roles of the time, if she'd had a female role model to enforce them. But a world without Magnus… without her own work with Abnormals…
The idea made his stomach lurch sickeningly.
"And she would have absolutely refused to let me socialize with the rest of the Five. James was at least somewhat respectable, but in time even he was tainted by association. If I'd had a mother, I would have married, had children, played the doting wife until I died… I'm sure of it. I would never have gone to Oxford, and chances are I would never have even met John and the others."
Her bright eyes closed, and Will watched her pull in a calming breath. The idea scared him, but at the same time, he could only imagine what it did to Magnus. She was a woman who had been allowed to bloom when most others shrank under societal rules.
Instinctively, he was assured that even if she had the chance—even if it meant meeting her mother—she wouldn't change any of it.
When she opened her eyes a moment later, she turned to him, and he saw her gaze was clear of its previous anguish. They were still bright, but now with renewed energy rather than from tears.
"I apologize, Will," she said, her voice just clipped enough to sound chipper. "I shouldn't have unloaded all of that on you."
Will shrugged, knowing better than to let her know he wished she would confide in him more. "It's what I'm here for. Besides, I asked."
She smiled at him, acknowledging the truth of his words. Then her attention returned to the city spread out below them, and together they simply gazed to the horizon.
When the silence had lasted just long enough, Will let a smirk play over his lips. "You know, we should bring a couch up here. You could lie down, and help me perfect my Freud impression." He steepled his fingers, letting a heavy look settle on his features. "Und, how does zat make you feel?"
He threw in a horrendous German accent, just to see if he could get a grin out of her.
Sure enough, a smile beamed through the darkness, and her soft laughter rang out clear against the stone rooftop. "Oh, that would be rich, wouldn't it?" She stepped closer to him, and gently bumped her shoulder against his. "But I think if something as comfortable as a couch was brought up here, I'd be hard pressed to ever go back down."
She meant it as a joke, he was sure, but there was a dark honesty that hinted even she just wanted a break from it all. A very long break.
He offered a thin smile, conveying his agreement. "Yeah, and let Biggie and Henry have the run of the joint? It'd be the end of the world as we know it."
This time, her smile was lackluster—humoring, rather than humorous. He sighed. "What d'you say we head back in? I'll make some tea."
"Hah," she huffed, a slight edge of disdain creeping in, as he knew it would. "I'll make the tea, thank you very much. I've seen you make coffee, and if you can butcher that as you do, you have no business making tea."
He chuckled, conceding the point to her. It was true.
"And for the record," she said stepping away from the parapet and following him back towards the door inside, "your Freud impression is better than you think, with all your questions about my childhood relation to my mother. And you know what they said about him and his mother—"
"Hey now, no need to pull out the big guns," he interrupted with a grin, opening the door for her. "Don't worry, I'll lay off the psychoanalyzing. And I'll have you know that my relationship with my mother was perfectly healthy."
"That's what old Sigmund said," came the tart reply as she slipped past him.
He trotted after her down the stairs, a quip of his own quick on his lips. But even as he continued the playful banter, and the heavy mood of the rooftop lifted, Will couldn't help but continue thinking. And in those moments, descending into the warm light of the Sanctuary's interior, he came to a tangible, irrefutable conclusion.
Sometimes, the family you make is better than the one you're born with.