Chapter 89:
[Steve Rogers POV]
[Council Building, Genosha]
The team and I arrive at the gala via limo, the soft hum of the engine fading as the driver pulls up to the entrance of the Council Building. Despite being here earlier in the day, the entire place feels beautifully different at night, as if the island itself has shifted to accommodate the evening's celebration. The building is bathed in soft, golden light, casting long shadows across the lawn and illuminating the elegant architecture in a way that makes everything seem more majestic, almost dreamlike. Lanterns line the pathway leading up to the entrance, their flickering flames adding warmth to the night air, while the gentle sound of waves lapping against the shore just beyond the estate provides a calming backdrop to the festivities. I step out of the limo, adjusting my formal jacket, the weight of the evening already pressing down on my shoulders. It's not the kind of pressure that comes from preparing for battle, but something quieter, more insidious. Tonight isn't about war—it's about diplomacy, about walking a tightrope between trust and suspicion, and that, in many ways, feels like a heavier burden. As I take in the surroundings, I can't help but notice how effortlessly the gala has transformed Genosha into something out of a fairytale. The gardens are lit with twinkling lights woven through the trees, and the soft strains of classical music float through the air, adding an air of sophistication to the night. Guests, both mutants and humans alike, are mingling near the entrance, their voices hushed and polite, though I can sense the underlying tension beneath the surface. We're all here for a common cause, but trust is fragile, and one wrong move could shatter everything we've worked for. I keep my posture relaxed and my expression neutral, but inside, my mind is already racing through potential scenarios, always preparing for the unexpected.
Psylocke walks over to stand by my side, her gown flowing elegantly with each step, the deep purple fabric shimmering under the soft glow of the lanterns. There's a quiet grace to her, a confidence that matches the sharpness of her abilities. She wraps her arm around mine, her touch light but grounding. "Shall we?" she asks, her voice soft yet filled with a kind of playful charm that momentarily pulls me from my thoughts. I glance down at her, offering a small smile in return. Psylocke has always had a way of making even the most serious situations feel just a little bit lighter, a skill I've come to appreciate over the years. I turn to the rest of the team, taking a moment to study each of them before we step further into the night. Tony's already a few steps ahead, his usual charm on full display as he exchanges pleasantries with a nearby diplomat. But I know him well enough to catch the subtle tension in his movements—the way his fingers tap lightly against his cufflinks, his eyes scanning the room even as he flashes a smile. Tony, for all his bravado, is always calculating, always prepared for whatever comes next. Sam and Rhodey are close behind him, the two of them in quiet conversation, though I can see the way Sam's eyes dart toward the entrance every few seconds, ever-watchful. Clint's standing near the back, leaning casually against a stone pillar, but there's nothing casual about the way he's surveying the crowd. He's in mission mode, even if he hides it well behind a smirk and the occasional joke. Logan, as expected, is the least at ease, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his tuxedo as he mutters something under his breath. He's never been one for formal events, and his discomfort is almost palpable, though I know he'll grit his teeth and get through the night—for the sake of the mission if nothing else.
I meet each of their eyes briefly, giving them a silent nod, the unspoken command clear—enjoy the party, but keep your guard up. Tonight is about more than just appearances. It's a delicate dance, and every one of us needs to be ready to act if things go south. As much as I want to believe in the possibility of peace, I've been in too many rooms like this to trust blindly. There's always an angle, always someone playing both sides, and it's my job to make sure we don't get caught off guard. With a final glance at the team, I turn back to Psylocke, offering her my arm as we move toward the entrance. The soft fabric of her dress brushes against my leg, and I can feel the warmth of her presence beside me, steady and sure. There's a comfort in knowing she's with me tonight, even as the weight of leadership presses down harder than ever. She gives me a knowing look, one that tells me she's aware of the thousand thoughts running through my mind, but she doesn't push. Instead, she squeezes my arm gently, a silent reassurance that she's here, that we're all in this together.
As we step into the grand foyer of the Council Building, the sounds of the gala envelop us—polite laughter, the clinking of glasses, and the soft murmur of conversation. The space is stunning, with high vaulted ceilings and elegant chandeliers casting a soft glow over the crowd. It's the kind of event that feels almost surreal, like stepping into another world entirely. But even as I take in the beauty of the night, my mind stays sharp, my instincts on high alert. I've learned the hard way that peace can be as dangerous as war, and tonight, we're walking a very fine line between the two. We're here to bridge the gap between mutants and humans, to build something lasting and meaningful. But I know, deep down, that trust doesn't come easily—not in this world, not with everything we've been through. So, as we move deeper into the gala, greeting diplomats, leaders, and fellow mutants, I stay focused. The night may be about celebration, but my mind is already on the future, on the challenges that lie ahead. While tonight may be filled with laughter and diplomacy, tomorrow could bring a different kind of battle. And as always, I'll be ready.
[Inside.] The moment I step inside, I'm immediately struck by the change in atmosphere. The air is thick with an elegant energy, the kind of tension that comes from anticipation rather than conflict. The party is flowing at a steady pace, with clusters of people scattered throughout the grand hall, their quiet conversations and muted laughter blending into the soft strains of classical music that seem to float through the air. It's a beautiful setting—ornate chandeliers casting a warm, golden light over the polished floors, long tables draped in pristine white cloths, and crystal glasses glinting in the low light. But beneath all the opulence, there's an undercurrent of something else, something deeper. It's as if everyone here is waiting for the next arrival, the next move and I can feel that same anticipation tugging at the edges of my thoughts. Psylocke walks by my side, her arm still linked with mine, the flowing fabric of her gown brushing softly against my leg with every step. There's a calmness to her presence, a silent assurance that grounds me even in the midst of all this uncertainty. I scan the room instinctively, my eyes moving from one group of guests to the next, cataloging faces, expressions, and body language. There's a mix of humans and mutants, some standing stiffly in awkward conversation while others seem more at ease, exchanging pleasantries with an air of casual diplomacy. But the tension is there, beneath it all—fragile, like a glass that could shatter at any moment if we're not careful.
And then I spot him—Magneto. He's standing near the far end of the hall, flanked by the other council members, his posture as regal as ever, his cape draped dramatically over one shoulder. Even from a distance, he commands attention. There's something magnetic—no pun intended—about his presence. He's not speaking, but the way the people around him hover, listening intently, tells me everything I need to know. He's still in control here. I feel Psylocke's grip tighten ever so slightly around my arm, and when I glance at her, she nods, sensing my intentions without a word exchanged. We start making our approach toward him, weaving through the guests as the conversations around us continue in soft, measured tones.
As we draw closer, I can't help but think about how far we've come to reach this point. Magneto, the man who once stood as an enemy, now playing host to this diplomatic gathering. It's surreal, and yet, here we are. Magneto spots us before we even reach him. His eyes lock onto mine, and for a brief moment, it feels like time slows down. There's no hostility in his gaze, none of the fierce intensity. Instead, there's something else—something quieter, perhaps even respectful. When we finally reach him, he acknowledges me with a respectful nod, his expression measured and controlled, as always. "Captain Rogers," he greets me, his voice calm, carrying the weight of a man who has seen and done more than most could ever imagine. It's not a warm welcome, but it's not cold either. It's the acknowledgment of equals, of two men who have stood on opposite sides but are now trying, however cautiously, to meet somewhere in the middle. "Magneto," I reply, matching his nod with one of my own. Standing this close to him, it's impossible not to feel the gravity of the situation. This man, who once believed that peace between humans and mutants was a fantasy, now stands before me, hosting a gala meant to bridge that very gap. The irony isn't lost on me.
Psylocke stands beside me, her gaze steady as she watches Magneto carefully. I know she's on high alert, even if she doesn't show it outwardly. It's her nature to be ready for anything, especially in a place like this, where alliances are still fragile, and the lines between friend and foe are easily blurred. I can feel the tension in the room starting to build as more guests arrive, the quiet hum of conversation growing louder as people begin to gather around us, watching this interaction with thinly veiled curiosity. "I wasn't sure you'd attend tonight," Magneto continues, his tone carefully neutral, but there's a hint of something more behind his words, something I can't quite place. "It's not often we find ourselves at such... social events, is it?" He almost smirks, the slightest twitch of amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth. It's strange seeing him like this—relaxed, or at least as relaxed as someone like Magneto ever gets. "We're here because we believe in the possibility of a better future," I say, my voice steady, "That's what this is about, isn't it? Finding common ground." It's not a question but a statement of fact, and I watch his eyes carefully as he processes my words. He studies me for a moment longer before nodding, his expression softening slightly.
"Indeed," Magneto replies, his gaze shifting briefly to Psylocke before returning to me, "Genosha represents a dream of a future where humans and mutants can co-exist." His voice grows a bit more intense, though it's not the firebrand rhetoric I've heard from him in the past. There's conviction, yes, but also a sense of weariness, like he's tired of fighting, tired of the endless cycle of conflict. "We've seen too much division, too much bloodshed," I respond, my tone measured, "If this place is truly about peace, then we're willing to help build that future. But trust takes time, Magneto. And trust isn't built on words alone." Magneto meets my gaze again, and this time, there's a flicker of something deeper in his eyes—understanding, maybe even agreement. "No," he says quietly, "It's not." The room seems to hold its breath as we stand there, a brief silence falling between us. Then, just as quickly as it began, the tension eases, and Magneto straightens, his regal composure slipping back into place. "Enjoy the gala, Captain," he says, offering a small, almost imperceptible smile before turning to address one of the council members standing nearby. It's not much, but it's a start.
Psylocke and I exchange a glance, and without a word, we move to blend into the crowd, the weight of the exchange lingering between us. Tonight isn't just about enjoying a party—it's about watching, listening, and staying alert. While Magneto may be speaking of peace now, the road ahead is still fraught with uncertainty. But for tonight, we'll walk that road together, eyes open, and see where it leads. Psylocke leans in slightly, her voice soft but tinged with a kind of thoughtful contemplation that catches my attention. "He really has changed," she comments, her gaze lingering on Magneto as he resumes his conversation with one of the council members. There's no sarcasm or doubt in her voice—just an observation. "Xavier's last dying words really left an impact on him," she adds, her tone quiet but firm, and I can hear the weight behind her words. It's not just an observation—it's a truth that's been sitting with her for some time. Xavier... even just the mention of his name brings a sharp pang of memory, of loss. A man whose vision of peace, of coexistence between humans and mutants, was unwavering, even in the face of the chaos and violence that surrounded him. He believed in something greater, in the possibility of real unity. And now, in a cruel twist of fate, the man who once stood as his greatest adversary is carrying that torch, or at least trying to.
I stay silent for a moment, processing Psylocke's words as the memories rush back. I remember exactly where I was when I caught the live footage of Xavier's assassination. It was supposed to be a routine briefing, just another day sifting through the endless stream of intel we received about global threats. But then the broadcast came in—footage from a rally, chaotic and filled with the kind of noise that comes with crowds gathered for something bigger than themselves. Xavier had been speaking, his voice calm but commanding, addressing both humans and mutants, trying once again to bridge the gap that so many had fought to keep wide open. And then it happened. Henry Gyrich. I hadn't known much about him before that day, just a name on a list, another bureaucrat with too much power and not enough humanity. But in that moment, as I watched in stunned silence, he became something far worse—a murderer. He didn't even flinch when he pulled the trigger; he didn't hesitate. It was calculated, cold. And before anyone could stop him, before the horror of what he'd done even had a chance to sink in, Xavier was gone. Just like that. A man who had spent his life preaching peace felled by a single act of violence. I remember the sharp intake of breath I took, the tightening of my fists as I watched it unfold on the screen, powerless to stop it. The room around me had fallen silent as we all stared at the footage, the weight of what had just happened crashing down on us like a tidal wave. I couldn't tear my eyes away from the screen, from the chaos that erupted in the crowd, from the sheer disbelief etched into the faces of those who had been standing just feet from Xavier when it happened. And then the broadcast ended, the screen going dark, leaving us all with the hollow echo of what we'd just witnessed. Even now, a year later, the memory of that moment feels fresh, like a wound that hasn't quite healed.
And knowing that Magneto—of all people—had been profoundly affected by it... well, it's hard to wrap my head around. "Xavier's last words," I murmur, more to myself than to Psylocke, my thoughts drifting back to what I'd heard about those final moments. Xavier, even in death, still urged for peace, believing that Magneto could be part of that vision. It's a testament to the kind of man Xavier was; even as the life drained out of him, he saw hope in the very person who had opposed him for so long. And now, here we are, standing in a hall filled with mutants and humans alike at a gala hosted by the man who once believed in domination over diplomacy. "Do you think he's really changed?" I ask, turning to Psylocke, my voice low as the question lingers in the air between us. She looks at me, her expression thoughtful, and for a moment, I can see the internal struggle reflected in her eyes. She wants to believe it, and I don't blame her. We all want to believe that people can change, that the battles we fight aren't for nothing, and that there's always a chance for redemption. But Magneto... he's not like the others. His ideology runs deep, rooted in a lifetime of pain, of loss, of war. Psylocke lets out a small sigh, her gaze shifting back to where Magneto stands, his presence still commanding the attention of those around him. "I think he's trying," she says finally, her voice soft but steady, "And for someone like Magneto, trying might be the best we can hope for." It's an honest answer. Change doesn't come easily, but if Xavier's death was enough to plant the seed of something different in Magneto's heart, then maybe there's a chance that seed can grow into something more positive.
[Spartan POV]
The party is starting to pick up pace as more people gather. I sit at the bar, not drinking but surveying the surrounding area, keeping an eye out for trouble. It's a habit I can't shake. The low hum of conversation fills the room, punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter or the clinking of glasses. There's an underlying tension I can't quite ignore. The atmosphere feels charged, like a storm that hasn't yet broken, and I find myself watching the exits, mentally cataloging faces, and measuring the distance between me and any potential threats. As long as I can remember, I was never a party person. Hell, I can count on one hand how many parties I've attended in my life. Never found comfort in crowds. Too many people, too many variables. Here, in Genosha, surrounded by diplomats and powerful figures, that discomfort is even more amplified. My instincts are always buzzing, always telling me to stay on guard, to be ready for the moment something goes wrong. Because something always goes wrong. I let out a slow breath, my eyes sweeping over the room once again. Tony's nearby, charming a group of dignitaries with that usual easy smile of his. Steve is making his rounds, too, shaking hands and nodding politely.
Suddenly, I sense her before I see her—the familiar warmth, the soft pull of her presence in the back of my mind. Wanda. She moves through the crowd. Her scarlet gown flows around her like liquid fire, catching the light and making her seem almost ethereal. But it's not the gown or the setting that makes her stand out. It's her. There's something about Wanda that's always drawn me in, something I can't quite put into words. I feel a pinch of annoyance when I catch a few men in the gala watching her lustfully, their eyes lingering on her longer than they should. Despite the slight curve of her growing pregnancy, it's as if they don't care; their gazes betray the respect this moment should demand. Wanda, as always, is stunning—one of the most beautiful women in the room, her presence commanding attention in a way that no one else here can match. But it's the way they look at her, a mixture of admiration and desire, that gnaws at me. She's more than her beauty, more than the way her scarlet gown clings to her frame. She's Wanda—my Wanda—carrying our child, and I can't help the protectiveness that rises in my chest, a fierce instinct to shield her from their eyes.
As she approaches, I can see the hint of a smile playing on her lips, her eyes locked on mine in that way that always makes me feel like I'm the only one in the room. For a moment, the noise of the party fades into the background, and it's just the two of us. "Dance with me," she says softly, extending her hand toward me, her voice carrying a quiet confidence that leaves little room for argument. For a split second, I consider objecting. Dancing has never been my thing, and the idea of drawing attention to myself in a room full of political players isn't exactly appealing. But then again, I've never been able to say no to Wanda. Not when she looks at me like that. Not when I can feel the softness of her presence against the hard edges of the world I've known for so long. I glance down at her hand, then back up at her face, and any resistance I might have had melts away. "Alright," I murmur, standing up from the bar stool and slipping my hand into hers. Her fingers are warm, grounding me in a way that nothing else ever really has. For someone who's spent most of their life in the heat of battle, learning to let go, even for a moment, feels foreign. But with Wanda, it's easier.
She leads me toward the center of the room, and suddenly, I'm aware of the eyes on us—people watching, murmuring under their breath. Let them watch, I think to myself. I'm not here for them. I'm here for her. Wanda turns to face me, her gaze soft but steady as she steps closer, resting one hand lightly on my shoulder while the other remains intertwined with mine. The music swells around us, a slow, lilting melody that seems to pull us together. For a brief moment, I feel out of place, my movements stiff, my mind still half-focused on the room around us. But then Wanda looks up at me, her eyes full of quiet understanding, and I feel myself relax. "You don't have to keep your guard up," she whispers, her voice barely audible over the music, "Not with me." There's a tenderness in her words that cuts through the tension I didn't even realize I was carrying. I exhale slowly, letting go of the tightness in my shoulders as I match her movements, letting her guide me into the rhythm of the dance. It's slow, almost lazy, the kind of dance that doesn't require precision or perfection—just presence. Just being here, in this moment, with her. Wanda leans her head against my chest, and I feel the warmth of her breath through the fabric of my suit. "Thank you," she whispers softly, her voice barely a breath against my skin, "For this." I smile down at her, pressing a soft kiss to the top of her head, "Always."
[Jericho POV]
From up on the second-floor balcony, I watch them—Mom and Dad—dancing below. It still feels surreal, like I've stumbled into someone else's life. Alive and well. Happy. In my timeline, I lost them when I was fifteen. Killed by Ultron. They died protecting me, and not a day has gone by where their absence hasn't shaped who I am, how I live, how I fight. And now, standing here, watching them move together so effortlessly, I can't help but feel like I'm in a dream. It's strange—haunting, even. The way Dad's hand rests on her lower back, guiding her through the slow, swaying rhythm of the music, the way Mom leans into him like he's her anchor in this world. They look so at peace, so... complete, as if the chaos and destruction I've known all my life never touched them. But I know the truth. They've fought their battles, just like I have, but somehow, they've emerged from it with something I lost—a future. I grip the balcony railing, the cool metal grounding me as the memories threaten to surface. In my world, there was no music, no dancing, no elegant gowns and suits. There was only the endless sound of war—drones whirring overhead, the cold mechanical voice of Ultron echoing across the ruins of what once was our home. Mom and Dad didn't get moments like this. We were always on the run, always fighting, never stopping long enough to catch our breath. And when they died... it shattered something inside me. Watching them now, here, in this timeline, alive and happy, it's like I've been given a glimpse of what could have been. It's beautiful. It's heartbreaking.
I let out a slow breath, my gaze never leaving them. Dad looks different when he's with her, softer somehow. That steely edge he always carries, the one that makes him seem untouchable, melts away in her presence. He's still strong, still the man who's spent his life fighting, but with her, there's a vulnerability I've never seen in him before. I can see it in the way his hand lingers on her waist, the way his eyes never leave hers, as if nothing else in this room matters. And Mom... she's glowing. There's a lightness in her that I barely recognize from my memories. She moves like she's floating, her scarlet gown swirling around her like a living flame, her eyes fixed on Dad with such tenderness that it almost hurts to witness. In my timeline, the weight of the world had always pressed down on her, the constant threat of Ultron stealing away whatever hope we had left. But here, she's free. And that's what gets me the most—the freedom in their movements, the way they dance without a care, without the crushing burden of the future hanging over their heads.
I never got to see them like this. I never got to see them just be. In my world, they were always fighting, always trying to protect me from the inevitable. And in the end, they couldn't. The image of that day is burned into my mind—Mom, standing between me and Ultron, her magic swirling around her, fierce and unyielding. Dad, taking hit after hit, refusing to go down until I was safe. I can still hear their voices, telling me to run, to live. To survive. I swallow hard, pushing the memory down, but it clings to me like a shadow. A part of me wants to rush down there, to grab them both and never let go, just to prove to myself that this isn't some cruel illusion. That they're really here, with me, in this timeline. That I won't wake up tomorrow to find it all gone. A breeze sweeps through the open balcony doors, rustling the curtains behind me, but I barely notice. My focus is entirely on them, the way they move together so effortlessly in sync. I can see the way Mom's hand rests gently on Dad's shoulder, the way she leans into him with a kind of trust that only comes from years of facing the worst together. It's the kind of love that can't be broken by anything, not even time.
At that moment, I notice Wolverine across the room, leaning against a pillar, his drink untouched in his hand as he watches the crowd. But it's not the party or the gala that has his attention. His gaze is locked on a couple on the dance floor, more specifically on the woman with fiery red hair—Jean Grey. There's a tension in his posture, a quiet intensity that radiates from him even from where I'm standing. I've seen that look before, a thousand times, and it always makes me uneasy. It's the kind of look that doesn't belong at a party, at a celebration. It's the look of someone whose mind is elsewhere, someone who's fighting a battle no one else can see. Wolverine doesn't move, doesn't speak. He just watches Jean as she moves gracefully across the floor with Cyclops, her laughter light, her smile genuine. She's beautiful in that effortless way that only Jean can be, her red hair catching the soft light of the chandeliers as she glides through the crowd. But it's more than her beauty that draws people in. There's something about Jean, something deep and powerful, something that makes her seem larger than life. She's the kind of person who leaves a mark on everyone she meets, whether they realize it or not. And Wolverine... he's no exception.
I shift slightly, trying not to make it too obvious that I'm watching him, but it's hard not to. There's something raw about the way he looks at her, a kind of unspoken longing that feels almost painful to witness. It's like he's torn between wanting to be close to her and knowing he can't. Or maybe it's that he shouldn't. The emotions play out across his face in the subtlest of ways—a flicker of something in his eyes, the way his jaw tightens for just a moment before he forces himself to relax. He's good at hiding it but not good enough. Not from someone who's used to watching people closely, who's trained to read the smallest changes in body language. I can tell he's struggling with something, some feeling he's buried deep down but can't quite keep in check tonight. His focus never wavers from Jean, even as she laughs softly, leaning into Cyclops, who's clearly enjoying the moment just as much as she is. Cyclops has his arm around her, protective but not possessive, his expression soft in a way I don't often see. There's a quiet happiness between them, a kind of unspoken understanding that comes from years of being together, of fighting side by side through more battles than anyone should ever have to. It's a love that's been tested over and over, but it's still there, strong as ever. And that's what makes watching Wolverine so hard.
He's not just looking at Jean like she's some unattainable prize. It's deeper than that. He's looking at her like she's his, in some way, even if he can never have her. Like there's a part of him that will always belong to her, no matter what. And I wonder, for the first time, how often he lets himself feel that. How often he lets himself remember that he's in love with a woman who will never be his. It's a kind of tragedy that makes my chest tighten just thinking about it. I can't imagine what it must be like to carry that around, day after day, knowing that the person you love is right there but forever out of reach. Jean doesn't notice him watching. Or maybe she does, but she's too focused on enjoying the moment with Cyclops to care. Either way, she's lost in her own world, happy and content, while Wolverine is left standing on the sidelines, always the outsider looking in. It's a cruel kind of irony, seeing him like this—so strong, so capable, and yet so powerless when it comes to the one thing he wants most. The more I watch him, the more I realize that this isn't just about unrequited love. It's about everything Wolverine is. He's the kind of man who feels everything deeply, who carries the weight of his past like an anchor around his neck, never able to fully let go. He's a warrior, a survivor, but when it comes to Jean, he's vulnerable in a way that I don't think he is with anyone else. And that vulnerability, that quiet suffering, it's laid bare in the way he watches her now, his eyes never leaving her as she moves across the dance floor with someone else.
For a moment, I consider going over to him, maybe distracting him, offering some kind of support. But I stop myself. This isn't the kind of thing you can talk about. Not with someone like Wolverine. He's not the type to open up about his feelings, not even to someone he trusts. He'll keep it locked inside, like he always does, burying it beneath layers of sarcasm and bravado, pretending it doesn't bother him as much as it does. So instead, I stay where I am, watching him, watching her, and feeling the weight of all the things left unsaid between them. The music changes, something slower now, more intimate, and I see the way Jean leans her head on Cyclops' shoulder, her eyes closing as they sway together. There's a tenderness in the way Cyclops holds her, his hand resting lightly on her back, his thumb tracing slow circles against her skin. It's the kind of moment that's supposed to be private and intimate, but here in this room, under the soft glow of chandeliers, it feels like everyone is watching, including Wolverine. His expression doesn't change, but there's a slight shift in his posture, a tightening of his grip on the drink he's been holding but not drinking. I can almost hear the sigh he doesn't let out, the resignation in the way he looks away for the first time as if forcing himself to stop watching them. It's too much, even for him. He takes a slow sip of his drink, his eyes dropping to the floor as he gathers himself, pulling those walls back up around him like armor. But I know it's still there. That feeling. That ache.
I wonder if Jean knows. If she understands the depth of what Wolverine feels for her. Or if she's chosen not to see it, not to acknowledge it because it would make things too complicated. Too messy. It's easier to pretend, I suppose. Easier to keep things simple, to let Cyclops be the one she leans on, the one she loves. But part of me wonders if, deep down, she does know. And if she does, what it must feel like to carry that knowledge with her, to know that two men love her, but only one of them can have her. Wolverine doesn't look at them again for the rest of the song. He stays where he is, silent and still, a man used to waiting. But even from across the room, I can see the weight of it, the way it presses down on him like a burden he can never quite shake. And I realize that, in his own way, Wolverine is fighting a battle tonight, too, not with his claws or his strength, but with something far more painful—his heart.
On the southwest side of the gala, I spot Tony talking to Emma Frost. Well, talking might be putting it lightly—flirting is more accurate. Typical Tony. His posture is relaxed, one hand casually tucked into his pocket, the other holding a drink that he occasionally swirls with an air of effortless charm. He leans slightly toward Emma, his signature grin plastered across his face, the kind of smile that says he knows exactly what he's doing and he's enjoying every second of it. Emma, for her part, looks completely unfazed, her expression cool and unreadable, though there's a slight arch to her brow that suggests she's amused, if not mildly entertained by Tony's antics. She's not laughing at his jokes, but she doesn't need to. The way she holds his gaze, her lips curving ever so slightly, says enough. Emma Frost is a woman who doesn't suffer fools lightly, but there's something about the way she's engaging with Tony that tells me she's indulging him—at least for now. Dressed in her signature all-white ensemble, Emma stands out even in this room full of diplomats, mutants, and high-society figures. The gown clings to her figure, elegant but sharp, much like the woman herself. Her platinum hair catches the soft lighting, giving her an almost ethereal glow, but there's nothing soft about her presence. She's a force—one of those people who can command a room without saying a word. And yet, here she is, humoring Tony Stark's flirtatious banter.
From where I'm standing, I can't hear their conversation, but I don't need to. I've seen Tony work his charm enough times to know exactly how this goes. He's leaning in, just close enough to make his interest clear but not so close that he oversteps. His words, whatever they are, come out smoothly, his expression one of playful curiosity as he tests the waters. Tony's always been a master at reading people, knowing when to push and when to pull back, and with Emma, I can see he's navigating that line carefully. I watch as he says something—probably a compliment wrapped in sarcasm, the kind he's perfected over the years—and Emma responds with a slow, deliberate smile. Not the kind of smile you give when you're genuinely charmed, but the kind you offer when you're in control, when you know exactly how the game is played. She's amused, sure, but there's a glint in her eyes that tells me she's playing along on her terms. It's a dance, this back-and-forth between them, and while Tony's clearly enjoying himself, I can't help but wonder how much of it is a front.
Tony's always been good at hiding behind humor, using it as a shield to deflect from anything too real. It's part of his charm but also part of his defense mechanism. And with Emma Frost, a woman who can see through most facades, I have to imagine she's aware of that. She's not the type to be easily fooled. Hell, she's one of the most powerful telepaths in the world—she could probably peel back every layer of Tony's mind if she wanted to. But she doesn't. Not here. Instead, she engages with him, her sharp wit matching his quip for quip, never letting him get the upper hand. It's almost fascinating to watch—two people who are both masters of control circling each other in this verbal sparring match disguised as flirtation. Tony leans in again, his expression shifting ever so slightly as if he's about to say something more serious, something that cuts through the surface-level banter. But Emma, as if sensing the shift, tilts her head, giving him a look that's equal parts playful and warning. Whatever Tony was about to say dies on his lips, replaced by another quick joke, something to lighten the moment. Emma's smile widens, but it's still measured and controlled.
I can't help but wonder what's really going on between them. Is this just Tony being Tony, unable to resist flirting with a woman as striking and powerful as Emma? Or is there something more beneath the surface? I've seen how Tony operates in these kinds of settings, how he uses charm and flirtation as a way to test people, to figure out what makes them tick. But with Emma, I get the sense that she's playing a longer game, one Tony might not even be fully aware of yet. As I watch them, I notice the way Tony's posture shifts slightly, his usual bravado slipping just a bit. It's subtle, but it's there. Maybe he's realizing that Emma's not someone he can easily charm or distract. Maybe he's starting to see that she's in control of this conversation, just like she's in control of everything else around her. There's something almost predatory in the way she watches him, like she's enjoying the game but also fully aware of the power dynamic between them. Emma's not someone who gets swept up in the moment. She calculates every move, every word, and I have no doubt she's doing the same now. Tony might think he's leading this dance, but from where I'm standing, it's clear that Emma's the one setting the pace. And Tony, for all his charm and wit, is just trying to keep up. I chuckle to myself, watching as Tony says something that earns him a raised eyebrow from Emma. She responds with a sharp retort, and Tony laughs, that easy, confident laugh that says he's enjoying the challenge. But I can tell there's more to this interaction than just harmless flirtation. There always is with Tony. He's never just talking—he's always working an angle, always thinking ahead. Whether it's business, politics, or relationships, Tony Stark never lets his guard down completely. And Emma? Well, she's probably already ten steps ahead of him.
The thought amuses me. Two people who are so used to being in control, so used to having the upper hand, navigating this strange, flirtatious dynamic. It's almost like watching two predators circle each other, both aware of the other's strength but unwilling to make the first move. I can't help but wonder how long this dance will last—who will push first, who will pull back, and what will happen when the game is over. For now, though, it's entertaining to watch. Tony leans in closer, dropping his voice to a near whisper, and Emma smirks, her eyes glinting with amusement. Whatever he's saying, she's not falling for it. But she's enjoying herself, and maybe that's enough. As they continue their verbal sparring, I turn my attention back to the rest of the room, knowing that whatever happens between Tony and Emma, it's bound to be interesting.
"So this is how they got together," I think to myself, watching Tony and Emma continue their flirtatious dance across the room. It's almost strange seeing the first seeds of something that, in my future, has already blossomed. My mind drifts for a moment, away from the gala, away from the present, and into memories of a future timeline where Tony Stark and Emma Frost are more than just flirtatious acquaintances. In my timeline, they're partners, both in life and in leadership. They're united, not just as a couple but as a force that helped shape the world I grew up in. And then, there's her—Morgan Stark. The thought of Morgan hits me hard, stirring emotions I didn't expect. She's my best friend in the future, the daughter of Tony Stark and Emma Frost. Growing up together, we shared everything—our hopes, our fears, our dreams of a better world. I can still see her, clear as day: her sharp mind and even sharper tongue, that same platinum hair as her mother's, but with Tony's easy grin. We were inseparable, especially after the world fell apart.
Morgan wasn't just a Stark by name. She inherited more than just her father's intellect—she got his stubbornness, his drive, and his heart. There were days in the future when it felt like she was the only thing keeping me sane, the only thing tethering me to some semblance of normalcy after my parents were gone. We fought side by side, just like our parents had, but for us, it was personal. Ultron destroyed our world and took everything from us. But in the darkest moments, it was always Morgan who found a way to keep hope alive. She was like that—a light, even when everything around us seemed to be falling apart. I wonder now, looking down at Tony and Emma, if they have any idea of the future that awaits them. If they can even begin to fathom what their lives will become. It's surreal, standing here in this timeline, knowing what's coming. Knowing that this is the beginning of something so much bigger. For them, it's just a flirtation. Maybe they're not even taking it seriously, just passing the time at a fancy gala. But for me, it's the start of a story I've already lived through. A story that ends with Morgan standing beside me as we try to pick up the pieces of a broken world.
The memories come flooding back—nights spent in the ruins of what was once New York, huddled together in the Metros, planning our next move against Ultron. Morgan was always the one with the plan, always the one who could see a way out, even when things seemed hopeless. I relied on her in ways I never thought I would rely on anyone. She had a mind that could rival her father's, but there was something else, too—something that made her more than just another Stark genius. She had her mother's strength, her unshakable will, and a kind of empathy that cut through even the darkest moments. I think that's what kept us going more than anything. Her belief was that, somehow, someway, we could make things right again. I wonder what she'd say if she were here now, watching her parents in the early stages of whatever this is. She'd probably laugh, that sharp, knowing laugh of hers, and make some snarky comment about how inevitable it all was. She always seemed to know more than she let on and always had this quiet confidence that came from being raised by two of the most formidable people on the planet. I always admired that about her—how she could balance the weight of the Stark legacy with the expectations of being Emma Frost's daughter, and still carve out her own place in the world.
I shift my gaze back to Tony and Emma, who are still engaged in their playful banter, and I can't help but smile to myself. It's strange, knowing what's coming before they do. Knowing that this little moment, this casual flirtation, is the beginning of something so much bigger. A future where their daughter becomes one of the most important people in my life. My chest tightens a little at the thought. I miss her. Even though I'm here, in this timeline, where things haven't gone to hell yet, I still carry the weight of that other world with me. I still carry the loss, the pain, the fight. And I still carry the memories of Morgan, my best friend, who stood beside me through it all. I wonder if she ever thought about her parents like this if she ever wondered how they got together, how their lives led them to each other. It's funny, in a way. She and I never really talked much about the past. We were always too focused on survival, on fighting for the future, to think about where we came from. But now, standing here, watching the beginnings of their relationship unfold in real-time, I can't help but think about it. About how everything we fought for, everything we lost, all started right here, in moments like this.
The world hasn't fallen apart yet. Ultron isn't a threat looming over us. My parents are still alive, dancing together on the floor below. And Tony Stark and Emma Frost are just two people at a gala, flirting like it's the most natural thing in the world. But I know better. I know how fragile this peace is. How quickly it can all be taken away. Still, for now, I let myself smile. Because even though I've seen the darkness that's coming, I've also seen the good. I've seen Morgan. And for now, that's enough.