“Fuck off”, he says - and it’s not the first time. Magda’s used to it by now, to the way he turns into a cantankerous gremlin every so often. She never listens of course, never takes heed of the arm that swats or the glare that ensues. He’s a self-destructive mess and no sane person would leave him to his own devices. Hank’s done his best, bless him, at weathering the storm that accompanies such moods, but he’s not old enough to have been through this before. He’s not old enough to have learnt quite a few years back, about putting your foot down and calling rank when the people you love are being idiots.
She sits at his side, whether invited or not, her features passive as she bites back the usual lecture. “Charles Francis Xavier, don’t you swear at me.” Is the usual line she’d go with, it’s so frequent now, he’ll know it without even requiring her to move her lips. He’s called her worse before, told her to do all manner of things when she’s been getting under his skin, but it’s frustration talking and that’s something she can understand. It’s why this time she says nothing, instead taking only a moment to pry the syringe from his hand and unfasten the tourniquet he’s slung around his bicep.
Her hands are soft when they’re running back and forth over his arm, fingertips ensnaring his wrist as she raises it to her mouth and kisses out a blessing along the intricate avenues of his veins. “I could go away and leave you here to sulk.” Her eyes flick to meet him, quietly pleading with his sense of reason as she laces their fingers and gives his hand a long overdue squeeze. “Or I could stay and we can watch the Wizard of Oz, while you look like such a scarecrow.” The fact she hasn’t moved makes her decision quite clear. She’s not abandoning him, and he’s just going to have to suck it up.
She does shift a little however, inching an arm around the abrasive mutant’s shoulders and leaning her head in just enough to peck at his cheek. “You’re smart, you’re kind and you’re loved - did you know that? I know today’s a bad day, and I’m sorry for that - but I promise they won’t all be like this. I promise it’ll get easier.” She’s waiting for him to start swearing again, waiting for him to pull away and call her a witch or a harpy or whatever other mythical crimes he wants to throw her way. Magda doesn’t even mind so much, because it’s his anger talking and not him. Max used to be the same, frustrated sometimes and just in need of someone to blame. Wasn’t that a human failing for most people?
“I even brought the nail polish. We can give you some happy luminous nails to impress everyone. Maybe a nice blue to match your sparkly eyes that so often get hidden behind that mop.” Teasing is a different tactic, fingers leafing through his hair for dramatic effect as she wiggles the little bottle of pearly blue in front of him. It’s a distraction and that’s what he needs, just something to try and tune out the thoughts, to let him think for himself without the serum and without drowning in everyone else’s pain.
When he doesn’t reply, her fingers ghost back down his arm to his hand, her touch calm and gentle when she’s guiding it sideways and balancing it precariously on a cushion so she can start adding colour to his gloomy existence. She doubts very much a manicure is suddenly going to cure all that ails him, but maybe it’ll help. Maybe it’ll make him smile or feel a little ridiculous and laugh at her for even attempting it. Just something that isn’t quite so soul-crushing.
“So…what do you fancy today? All blue or am I back to painting flowers….”
