Title: shell-shocked
Fandom: Marvel Comics
Characters: Phoebe Cuckoo, Quentin Quire, Daken Akihiro (mentioned)
Pairing: Phoebe Cuckoo/Quentin Quire
Words: 945
Rating: Teen
Warnings: brief mention of blood and injury, some angst, anxiety, post-disaster, loss of powers
Author Notes: AU: Canon Divergence - diverges sometime before the Hellfire Gala in the current X-Men timeline. There’s also a bit of a West Coast Avengers (2018) tie-in.
Summary: Phoebe is having a bit of a hard time holding it together after Krakoa falls and she loses her powers.




Phoebe rolls over onto her side and sighs. She’s exhausted and there isn’t any part of her body that doesn’t hurt. She’s uncertain if it’s from this sad excuse of a mattress plopped down on the floor without a frame or boxspring or from what came before.

How long has she been lying here? She’s been drifting in and out of sleep for who knows how long. She’s not even sure how long she’s been in this city let alone this bed. She remembers Quentin telling her this used to be his room when he was still a part of the weird west coast based knock-off Avengers. She doesn’t know if the team is still together or who still lives here in this shabby excuse for superhero housing. They arrived in a whirlwind of chaos and confusion and her head was still muddled.

The room smells stale and empty. Other than the mattress on the floor and a television in the corner there isn’t much here to fill the space. She vaguely remembers someone wearing altogether too much purple assuring her the sheets were clean. One of the Hawkeyes maybe? She can’t feel anyone's mind and without that gift, she doesn’t seem to be able to recognize people properly.

She feels broken and empty. She can’t feel her sisters. She can’t feel Emma. She can’t anyone’s mental chatter now even when they’re in the same room as her. She doesn’t even know how much time has passed since Krakoa wailed its final death moans or if anyone besides her little group of refugees made it out alive.

A haphazardly strung set of fairy lights is the only thing lighting up the room. She can’t see Quentin being responsible for that sort of joyful decorating and with a slight pang of jealously she wonders if it was the work of the strange girl with a less than firm grip on reality that Quentin dated before her. And that thought leads her to wonder if she’d made it off the island in time, which makes her think of everyone else she doesn’t know the fate of.

One moment she and Quentin were holding one of the last gates open as Krakoa collapsed into itself and the next moment she was blinded by pain and cut off from her powers. She doesn’t know if her powers were overloaded, blocked, or gone forever. Quentin was in the same metaphorical sinking boat. Lost and powerless. They’d lost their home and their belongings. She doesn’t know if she’s lost her family yet and just thinking about that unhappy possibility has her shaking. Again.

Everything was gone.

Sitting up she wraps her arms around her knees, puts her chin down, and tries to focus on her breath. She can hear sounds elsewhere in the building. Downstairs? Voices and the clanging of something - pots and pans maybe? She calms down just a bit but it’s still too quiet. She needs more noise to fill the void opening up inside her. She spots the remote on the floor near the bed, leans over, and grabs it.

She channel surfs for a minute or two before settling on some teen drama. The banal conversation and petty bickering help her to get a grip on anxiety. Once her heart rate steadies a bit and her shaking subsides, Phoebe lays back down, closes her eyes, and takes a deep breath. There’s a scent in the air - something savory and potentially delicious. Someone must be cooking. Her stomach growls. She can’t recall the last meal she ate.

She remembers stumbling through the doorway, collapsing onto the floor, and being helped into the shower at some point. There’d been a lot of blood. Hers and Quentin’s. Nosebleeds, she thinks.

She’d been given borrowed clothes to wear. They almost fit but are very much not her style. Not that it really matters. She’s comfortable and covered - albeit in way too much purple. She thinks she remembers someone bringing her a bottle of water while she was still half-asleep. As far as she can remember no one brought her anything to eat.

She hears footsteps on the stairs and opens her eyes in time to see Quentin enter the room with a tray in his hands. “I brought food,” he says.

She sits up and rubs her eyes. “You cooked?” Her voice is hoarse, her throat raw.

Quentin laughs and it sounds like gravel. She finds it comforting and familiar all the same. “No, Daken did - but if it’s as good as it smells, I’m happy to take credit.” His smile is strained as he puts the tray down on the floor beside the bed and sits beside her. “You hungry?”

Phoebe pauses a moment to consider the question. “I think so?”

“It’s some kind of noodle thing with pork and vegetables. I watched him make it. He’s pretty impressive in the kitchen.”

“You sound surprised,” she says.

“Well, we are talking about Daken.” He picks up a bowl and hands it to her. “Fork or chopsticks?”

She chooses chopsticks and Quentin goes with a fork. They eat in silence. The food is amazing. When they finish, Quentin places the empty bowls back on the tray, moves them aside, and gets under the covers. She snuggles closer and rests her head on his chest. “I’m happy you’re alive,” she says.

“Me too - you, I mean. I’m glad we’re both alive, actually. Whatever else - we still have each other.” Quentin’s voice is soft and sleepy. Phoebe’s not sure if he’s slept yet and doesn’t ask. Instead, she listens to his heartbeat steady beneath her cheek as they both drift off to sleep.