butterflyfactor | (no subject)

The early years of her life aside, Layla hadn't spent much time wrapped up in luxury. She'd gone from orphanage to what was effectively the team's Bowery barracks to run-down, borderline post-apocalyptic ruins. The island wasn't bad, although real mattresses, couches, pretty much anything from Pottery Barn would have been nice. As much as she enjoyed her living situation, particularly that time spent in bed- at least since she and Jamie had gotten their acts together- she was immediately aware that whatever situation she was waking up to was better. She shifted a little as she woke up, groggily recognizing the feel of soft, airy cotton sheets dragging against her skin, tangentially aware of a soft pliant mattress beneath her that didn't sag or give any hint as to what was holding it up. Real luxury.

The air didn't smell like the island air. To begin with, it was crisp, void of humidity, vaguely pine-scented. She cracked one eye open toward the nearest source of light, which was coming in a broad balcony window that framed the forested mountains beyond. It was breathtaking. Also, highly unexpected.

I know this view, but not because I've seen it before. Not exactly. I know I'm looking out at Latveria from the exquisite stone framing of my room's balcony the same way I know what kind of crap Rahne tries to pull after she gets all preggers- because my future self told me so. Kinda sorta. Anyway, I know for sure I don't arrive in Latveria by just waking up- wearing the clothes I went to sleep in, or lack thereof, on the island- in a guest suite. Which means this is... All wrong.

I also know that I don't turn up with anyone else in tow.

Layla pushed herself up onto her elbows, looking around the room from behind a messy fall of blond hair before her gaze landed on the sleeping Jamie Madrox beside her.

He was probably gonna freak out. She sort of wanted to let him sleep and just.... avoid that, for a while. Maybe get up, take the tour, figure out what the what was happening, and then come back. If he woke up while she was gone, though, he'd probably freak out more.

She reached over and shook his shoulder gently.

"Jamie." She tapped him, realizing what the result would be if they were, indeed, in Latveria and, therefore, home (or somewhere like it).

"Jamies. Wake up."

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"Not important," Layla said, lifting her gauntlet clad hand above her head.

"Stand close to me and call back any of your missing parts, we're going to blow this joint."

Layla had always had a knack for creating more questions than answers, and apparently that talent wasn't dampened even when they'd all but left reality. Two identical pairs of blue eyes scanned the immediate area for any sign of Doom, but were met with nothing; given Layla's general air of haste, however, and Jamie's own desire to get the hell out of this place, he decided to stop wasting time.

"Is this to make up for the lack of goodbye kiss?" asked Prime, getting in close before extending both of his hands outwards, and falling silent. From what he could tell, none of his dupes were far, but it required a degree of concentration to absorb anything from a distance. For a long moment nothing happened after the first dupe was returned with little ceremony, but then the room around them was full of movement, the dupes' bodies elongated into ribbons of peach and green and brown that stretched and twisted through the air, all coming to a dead end in the center of Prime's chest.

It stopped as abruptly as it started, but the exercise left Jamie winded and disoriented as he tried to sort through a dozen set of memories. He stumbled back a step, blinking hard from the head rush, and grabbed a hold of Layla's shoulder to steady himself.

"Nearly forgot what that felt like," he murmured.

She glanced up at him.

"But only nearly."

A yellow square of light appeared on the floor beneath them, growing in brightness with each passing moment until the was a beam that enveloped and illuminated them.

It rose, and Layla knew if anyone had been watching, they'd have seen herself and Jamie disappearing from the legs up, slowly, like a drawing on a slate being wiped clean.

When the light was blinding, passing over their faces and heads, she had a brief moment of not knowing if it was going to work or not. In the next instant the Doomlock had winked out of existence, and they stood on the cool, dark bank of the Seine at night time, the water dark and lapping quietly at the stone, the gaslamps and electric lights of bars and flats twinkling down at them from their place under the slender bridge they'd appeared under.

Not bad, Layla thought, turning her hand over the way one might admire their manicure, taking in the slender silver gauntlet.

Effectively useless by all real world standards, but in these circumstances- not bad.

Well, that was unexpected.

Letting his hand drop from Layla's shoulder, Jamie blinked at their new surroundings, his eyes taking a moment to adjust to the low light. He took an uncertain step forward out from the shadow of the bridge, then returned to her side, his gaze questioning.

"We're in France," he said, stating the obvious. He'd lived there for a time, after all, it didn't take much to clue him into where they were. The real questions were why and how. "You... took us to France."

"You know until I landed on the island, I'd never really been out of the Tri-State?" Layla said, starting to walk out from under the bridge. A long set of narrow stone steps led up to the street and she stopped at their foot.

She turned back to look at him, eyes glittering as darkly blue as the water, not from some heightened sense of romanticism but from barely suppressed, deeply frustrated tears she wouldn't let fall.

"And I could murder a croissant right now, so."

"What the hell happened in there?" Jamie demanded, immediately following after her. He was starting to feel like a satellite, about as autonomous as a freshly made dupe, and the act was wearing thin. He caught her by the arm to prevent her from going further, concern underlying his annoyance, but not the overwhelming emotion written plain across his face all the same. That close to her, it didn't escape his notice that she was upset, but it was a knowledge he couldn't put into practical use just then, even if he loosened his hold on her arm to reach for her face instead, cupping her cheek in his palm.

"Please?"

She pulled away from him, drawing inward and wrapping her arms around herself.

"Nothing. Nothing happened. He gave me the glove and I just knew how to make it work. I knew everything he was going to say the instant he started saying it. Like deja vu that wouldn't stop. There may have been truth in some of it, but I can't know that."

Not just that I don't. I can't. Can't. It's worse than being on the island, for all that that's a frustrating situation. Dressed up in the trappings of home, doubting what I know feels even more desperate, leaves me even more lost.

Jamie sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose with the very hand he'd used in his failed attempt to comfort her; he wasn't sure what to do. There weren't many words of reassurance he could offer, after all, since this is all a dream was sort of besides the point. This world, imagined though it may be, was giving him a taste of his old life back, but it necessarily couldn't give Layla a taste of hers.

"No, you can't," he agreed, because it was the only thing he knew to say. "And I'm sorry for that, Layla."

"Thanks," she said, a bit hollowly, staring at the river until she was certain her eyes were dry.

"So," she said after a prolonged moment before she turned back to him, hair blowing loose around her bare shoulders, heavy folds of the dress catching the breeze enough to make them swing.

"Show me Paris?"

Despite the day's earlier events, and despite the fact that his girlfriend was more or less crying mere moments before, Jamie was struck, suddenly, by the romanticism of the atmosphere, the way Layla looked in the low light. After all, it wasn't often that one found themselves literally swept off their feet, and brought to Paris -- even in their former line of work. One of the last times Jamie had been to Paris, he'd nearly destroyed it.

After a moment of simply staring at her, he extended a hand, not sure she'd even take it, given their track record for the day, but thinking it stranger to not offer with a lead-in like that one.

"I can manage that."