Chapter 90: Recipe and Reload

When Bronte and Ilyana made it back to his apartment, the sun was already rising. It was a long walk, even with the city activity severely diminished. A fading aspect as cars whizzed by below his window and kids made their way into school buses. It made the previous days battles and nights discoveries feel like they happened in a different world.

A world only he and Ilyana knew. A world that faded with the rising sun and city-wide revival.

He stood at his doorway, facing Ilyana as she stared at him. Soot marred her cheeks like tiger stripes— almost blending like face paint with her black lipstick and thick eyeliner. Her plethora of ear rings and jewelry glimmered under the industrial lighting of the hallway as other tenants came in and out of their own rooms.

She had a scar on the nape of her neck and a couple bruises on her hands but was otherwise no worse for wear than he. He wanted to give her another beer just to see the bubbles collect over her top lip.

"So, I'll tell the others what Strange told us about the Montesi Formula and from there we'll devise a more concrete plan. If we have to we can bring them to the Sanctum Sanctorum and work with Wong directly."

Brontë nodded, "Heard you. I'll make sure we go over how Daken is expanding the variation of Vampires and how that affects the spell… or whatever it is."

"Right." Ilyana nodded, "I forgot about that…. Water Vampires… and Mutant Vampires…"

"And possibly Demon-Mutant Vampires."

Ilyana steeled herself, "Do not worry. We are strong."

"I'm always worried. We can be as strong as we want, Daken is smart. He's smart… and even he's worried. He's been scared of me since he met me. We can both kill each-other real easy. Just takes one of us to slip up and that's game."

Ilyana chewed her bottom lip and dug her hands into her coat pockets, dragging the tapered bottom down past her exposed lower stomach, "I don't like when you talk about dying…. I spent four years wondering on and off if you were dead. Cypher was ready to report me to Professor X by the end of it."

"My bad. I wish I could say I'd do it differently but I wouldn't. I don't think I'd ever forgive myself if Daken got Raze… and the rest of you because I decided to stay at the Institute. I'm still trying to avenge Rahne as it is…" Bronte said.

Ilyana nodded, "We are too. They miss you, you know. Sam, Daniele, Douglas, Bobby and Hank all ask about you."

"I'll have to get up with them once this is all over." Bronte said with a sigh.

"Yes." She looked him up and down briefly.

An awkward silence spread. Making the click of the dogs claws behind Bronte feel exponentially louder.

Ilyana looked deep in thought for a moment, "I think…. I want to say more."

"Go ahead."

Ilyana shrugged and squirmed briefly as she stood in front of him, "I- I don't know. It's more like… a feeling?"

Brontë caught a familiar scent.

"You should come inside.."

Ilyana hesitated as Bronte stepped aside.

"In a day we interrogated a black Market Vampire dealer, fought off a Vampire pandemic, fought off a black ops anti-mutant task force and found a possible cure for Vampirism, globally. You're tired. You can sleep here. There's more than enough room."

"…Ok." Ilyana stepped inside as if it was her first time inside the apartment.

The dogs awkwardly stared at them as they stood in the living room. Brontë stared at the red hue spreading across Ilyana's cheeks. Almost hidden beneath the soot and grime. Maybe he was seeing things.

Mend leapt off Bronte's body and took over the closest Pitbull, immediately turning the cute dog into a slime skinned monster with a mane of tendrils, "Let's go, boys! This CAR doesn't have room for eight wheels hahaha!"

Mend and the other hounds trotted off to a room down the hall near the kitchen.

"I don't understand that reference." Ilyana spoke into the silence.

"I think that's the worst third wheel joke I've ever heard in my life…. It has to be." Bronte thought before speaking, "I don't either. Anyway, the showers all yours. I got extra toothbrushes and sleeping clothes. I think my sister left some of her stuff here."

Ilyana shook her head, "This is your home, Bronte. You go first. Plus… you stink."

"Damn, for real?" Bronte looked down at himself, forgetting he was completely shirtless in torn cargo pants and black timberlands.

"You ran through old walls and ripped apart a dozen men. You also flew all across the nation this morning. You stink." Ilyana opened a portal and pushed him through it without looking at him.

She sighed and put her face in her hands trying to hide her reddening heat as it spread, "You don't stink at all…"

Brontë pretended he didn't have superhuman hearing as he stood in his bathroom.

***

The shower washed away the days damage on the outside, but inside a traumatic grime clung to him like…. nothing he could think of comparing.

It wasn't unique. People all over the world endured trauma.

It must've felt as crushing and unique for everyone.

A thought for another time.

When he stepped out of the shower he worked his hardest to tone down his familial ruggedness to something more tame with a clean shave, moisturized skin and braids.

Braiding your hair with one hand was a task to put it lightly. But he worked diligently.

He had company after all.

As he finished up, he hummed a new beat concept to himself while he imagined dark lips over dark ale. It drowned the days events behind a hazy hue of comfort.

He stepped out of the bathroom and walked into his bedroom/living-room. The radio on the balcony of his neighbors apartment blared with a familiar bombastic and annoying voice. J. Jonah Jameson.

"BREAKING NEWS! Today two of the Spider-Menace's close allies was outdone by the….. Weather-Man! The guy doesn't sleep! First he was tackling Vampires and next thing you know he's throwing Bullseye in NYD lockup and knocking out Tombstones eyeball! Fantastic! Now….. some of you may feel I'm too supportive of someone so barbaric. Maybe I am. We're in the end times give me a break!"

Brontë tuned out the rest of the radio conversation as he looked for Ilyana.

He expected her to be at his window to the left of his apartment, right above his producer set up.

Or walking around, digging through his things in search of dangers and personal items.

Instead she stood beside his bed. He came out just as she picked up a pair of women's underwear from under his bed.

"Damn…"

Brontë cleared his throat.

Ilyana jumped in spirit before dropping the underwear behind her as she turned to face him.

He'd never seen her so….. disappointed? Hurt? She wouldn't even look at him.

"Ilyana—"

"Bronte— I actually change my mind. I'm going to go… home."

"Ilyana hold on—"

"I have to make some phone calls….. I'm tired… I wasn't thinking right coming here. You should get some sleep. I'll see you tommorow." Ilyana jumped through one of her portals faster than he'd ever seen.

Brontë stood frozen for a second. Caught between the idea of chasing after her and blowing his head off entirely.

He settled with looking at the ceiling.

In one of the nearby apartments a baby started crying.

"Why me…?"

The dogs slowly spilled back into the livingroom with their heads low and tails even lower.

Brontë took off his shirt and turned on his stereo. The old routine engulfed him immediately as he plopped down onto his bed.

"That's rough, Unc…" Mend sat in front of him at the side of his bed.

One of the pitbulls— Scooter, barked and licked Bronte's kneecap.

Mend snapped at him as his mane of tendrils grew mouthes and hissed violently, "READ THE ROOM FURBALL!"

The dogs all sat behind Mend in silence.

Mend whined and pressed his canine nose against his outer leg, "Please don't slip back into a deep depression… WE made so much progress! DONT….. ERHM… don't let this get you down."

Brontë waved him off, "Relax, man. I'm not a teenager. That was tough, though….. it felt like more than just some awkward let down. She looked…. So hurt."

"Well she did find another woman's sexy underwear under YOUR bed… that's not ideal, Bronte. Especially considering where the night was going."

"Word….."

"Very word…." Mend agreed.

Brontë sighed, "That's not…. Nevermind you got it."

"You'll have to get your apology ready for the next meeting! WE can roleplay! I can be Ilyana! I'm reading therapy books that say simulations like that can HELP HAHA! WE CAN MEND THIS!"

Brontë tapped his head, "Relax…. It's… it's fine."

"Are you sure? I feel we should talk about this!….."

Brontë shook his head, "I wanted to talk about you actually."

"Me? I have done nothing... actually I ate your steak I'm sorry." Mend's canine ears flattened apologetically.

"You are….. I got respect for you, Mend."

"….Hm?"

"I've been disrespecting you if I'm being honest. And that makes no sense….. We're family….. your dad saved my life. He saved me after dying to save me by giving me you. That's…. It don't get more heroic than that."

"What a tongue twister…" Mend whispered.

"And today, you….. You were one of two people that heard me say I wanted to save everyone and got busy with me. I owe you. I owe you alot."

"Repay me with chocolate covered steak."

"You're out of your entire mind." Bronte replied as the dogs spread out and Mend hopped up onto the bed.

"I am!" Mend sat up on the bed beside Bronte. Proud of his psychosis.

"I'm going to bed. Don't use my body, tonight….That sounds so crazy."

"You're right. Especially since nobody but you uses your body for things…. MAN WHORE!" Mend howled and licked his forehead.

Brontë laughed, "Too soon, man…."

"Someone would've said it eventually."

Brontë dug into his bedside drawer, "We all have vices.."

He pulled out the desert eagle. It fit into his hand with a sense of familiarity.

He kept count. He had one more bullet left in the magazine.

He pressed it to his temple as the music played.

The music of his family. Scattered across the planet. Far away. In danger. In death. But also all around him in the only way he could manage for so long.

He missed them so much his chest hurt. He missed...

He missed….

Brontë sighed as he dropped the gun from his head. Hands shaking and breaths uneven.

It used to be so effortless. So needed.

Maybe he saw it for what it was for the first time….

Even with his healing factor and metal skeleton the process was the same.

The silence. The break from it all. The release. No more nightmares— no more memories. No more pain.

He didn't want to end it all every night for the rest of his life.

He wanted life.

He wanted to live. He wanted to speak to Ilyana again. He wanted to cure everyone affected by Daken's cruelty. He wanted to fix what happened with the people of Talocan. He wanted to help people…. Mutants…. The Midnight Suns… Help his family. Help friends he hadn't seen in years.

For now, he wanted….

Brontë put the gun back in the bedside drawer and pulled out his phone.

Mend watched in silence as it rang.

"….. Hello?"

"Hey, Ma."

"Bronte! Honey is that you?"

"Yea….."