Raven sat through the rest of Mr Franklin's shift, then made her exit as quickly as possible. As she made her way back to the rendezvous point, where Azazel would meet her, take her home, she couldn't get Erik's tortured confession out of her head. I begged him to help me. She couldn't imagine the Lucifer-proud metal-bender begging for anything. Only with Charles – and on very rare occasions, Madeline – had he ever let his perennial guard down. To have that thrown back in his face – by Charles, of all people – she didn't like to think about the wound that must have left.

And if he could truly turn his back on Erik – the one he loved more than anything – he's not the man I thought he was. He's not the brother I knew anymore.

She didn't have long to brood however – although he had yielded on the question of her busting into the Pentagon, Azazel had insisted on sticking close by, and she reached the motel where he was waiting for her in less than an hour. He was lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling as she entered the unprepossessing little room. She was touched to see relief suffuse his face as she put her head around the door.

"You were long," he accused. She shrugged.

"I'm here now," she said lightly, and approached the bed, transforming into her true self as she did so, pushing him back down on it as he made to rise, and stretched languorously out on top of him. He gave a low rumble of appreciation, put his arms around her. She rested her head on his chest, listened to the booming drone of his heart, let the stress and the sadness bleed out of her as his hands made lazy circuits of her back. After a long moment, she felt him stiffen slightly, steeling himself before asking her the question he both needed and dreaded to be answered.

"Our comrade. How is he?"

Raven shut her eyes, remembering Erik's frenzied panic when he realised she had come, the hunted expression that had never quite left his face the whole time she was there, the agony in his eyes when his powers had hit the metal plate inside his head. She lifted her chin and looked down at her lover, trying to find the right words.

"He's… he's alive. For now, that will have to do. For all of us."

Azazel nodded solemnly, and she felt a hot burst of gratitude that of all the people in the world, he was with her now to share this burden, Azazel who never panicked or postured, who could simply accept the world the way it was, and when required, would do anything she needed him to do. Right now, she decided, she needed him to make love to her, to wash the government prison from her skin, to wipe Erik's suffering from her mind, just for a little while. And so she pushed her hands inside his clothes, licked her way into his mouth, felt him willingly responding. She forgot that they had no plan, that they were in terrible danger, that Erik was captured, that she was in charge. She forgot everything, except for a fraction of a second at the moment of their joining, when a tiny spark of concern at the back of her mind whispered the baby, before being obliterated by the heedless pleasure that consumed them. And then she was drifting slowly back to earth in a sweet trembling sweat, listening to the rough pant of her lover's breath. She pressed her face into his neck, smelling the salt and smoke there, reluctantly reassembling into herself, her life, her mission.

"We should go back. Tell the others. Azazel, we're going to have to make a plan. We can't leave him there. But we can't use Charles. He's off the table, totally. Erik's orders. Completely non-negotiable, and I don't disagree with him for once."

Azazel managed to grunt in a way that indicated a lack of surprise, tacit disapproval, and stoic acceptance all that once – for a man of few words, he could be surprisingly and concisely eloquent at times. Then he stood up, hunting around the room for his discarded garments. In spite of the seriousness of their conversation, she couldn't help but take a moment to enjoy the sight of him in all his glory, six foot of chiseled, crimson perfection, his long, muscular tail curling out to balance himself as he unselfconsciously stood on one foot and then the other to put his socks on. She felt pride that he was hers; a ghost of lust; and a twinge of angry sadness that so few would ever see, much less appreciate, the beauty that was so uniquely his.

It's this we fight for too, she reminded herself. It's not just Charles and Erik's epic struggles for justice, for peace, for our very existence. It's our right to be real, to be known, to be loved. To love ourselves, and each other, no shame, no hiding.

Before she even knew that she was going to, she sat up in bed and declared "I'm pregnant."

He froze in the act of putting on his pants, his back to her. For half a second, she thought she saw him flicker in the air, both there and not there. And then he turned around and looked at her, his expression unreadable.

"You are certain of this." It wasn't a question, but she answered it anyway, nodding.

"I haven't done a test or anything, but yes, I'm sure. I feel different. I've been getting sick for days now. And Sean says I've got the signs. Not that I'm sure what the signs are supposed to be for someone like me, but-" She realised she was starting to gabble; his silence seemed to be sucking the words out of her like a vacuum. "Yes, is the answer to your question. Yes, I'm sure."

He kept on looking at her, evincing nothing, unnaturally still. She tried to wait him out, to give him the time he needed to process this life-altering information – but the tension was killing her, and she gave in.

"Well say something, would you please? Is this OK? Are we OK?"

After a moment which seemed much longer to her than it probably was, he smiled – a smile so wide, so wicked, so joyful, that her heart jumped into her throat and stayed there. She knew, seeing that smile, that she was not alone, that the child inside her was not alone.

"What could not be OK? We will be sem'ya! When will baby come? Mal'chik ili devochka? Will be red like me or blue like you? What will-"

Raven began to laugh, the relief coursing like alcohol through her, making her feel giddy.

"Easy there sailor! I have absolutely no idea if it's a boy or girl, or both at once, or what colour it is, or any of that stuff. I don't even know when it's due! Figuring on a human scale, it could be anything between 5 and 7 months – but there's no reason to assume that anything will happen when it 'should'; we're in uncharted territory here-"

She found her words cut off by an exuberant embrace, and then she was laughing again as he almost immediately sprang off her remorsefully, as if she was made of glass. He sat cross-legged on the mattress next to her, and she took his hand in hers and put it to the light swell of her belly. He let his breath out slowly, then pressed his hand down possessively, leaned his forehead against her temple.

"Siniy ved'ma. Ya lyublyu tebya."

And there they were. The words that meant everything. The words she couldn't give back. She compensated as best she could by kissing him, forcing the spectre of Hank from her mind. But they were still ringing in her head as he took her hand and transported them from the motel back to the Brotherhood's headquarters. Still with her as she smelt the blood and fire, and heard the screams.