The sun shone brightly despite the time of year, but its warm rays brushed uselessly against heavy curtains. Inside the dark room, a father held his baby in his arms and prayed that the child would find peace. (darkfoxglove)
Sergei Darkholme, better known to the world as Azazel, wept for his son. He had his father’s tail and pointed ears. His mother’s blue skin. Less fingers and toes than normal, but he was healthy. Alive.
And stuck like that.
Raven stopped at the threshold. “Is he–?” she whispered, terror clear in the tiny squeak of her voice.
“Nyet. He lives. I have done tests. He has not your magic.”
“You can disguise yourself when you want to, why–?”
“He can not. He will never be able to. The way he is… he will always be. Blue. With tail. Uh… I forget english. The three fingers.”
“Tridactyl,” Raven supplied. He could see it in her face. She was just picturing what her ‘brother’ Charles Xavier would do to their son.
“Da. Spacibo.” He also knew what was likely to happen to him if Erik got his hands on their little boy. “What do we do? What can we do?”
“I have a friend in East Germany. Irene Adler. She… she sees the future. She’d be able to tell us the best thing to do. To… to make sure he’s going to be okay…” She joined him by his side, embracing the little boy who was positive proof of their love. So new. So tiny. So clearly in danger from the first breath he took.
“We will have to take back roads.”
“Yes. I’ll write her and let her know we’re coming.”
Their baby wriggled and yawned in his arms. “Your name is Ivan Darkholme. And no matter what happens… you are loved. Remember that, Ivan. Remember.”
He had his mother’s yellow eyes. And the owlish stare of babies the world over. In that, at least, he was normal.