Limbo, Lace, and Levis

Posted on Mon Aug 25th, 2025 @ 3:00pm by Desmond Greene & Maeve MacKenna & Alaric Thane

4,764 words; about a 24 minute read

Mission: Episode 7: Pathogens and Contagions
Location: Salem Center Mall
Timeline: Saturday, March 1992

It was the weekend and Alaric had agreed to accompany a couple of the students into town. It wasn't his first excursion by any means, but it was his trip to the mall. Alaric had an idea of what a "mall" was supposed to be based on what he'd seen and heard. But now that he was standing in front of it...the descriptions didn't do it justice. Judging from the size of the building, and the number of teenagers streaming in like it was a temple of denim and fried food, it was clearly some kind of ritual site at its core.

He pulled his coat tighter around his shoulders, black scarf trailing behind him in the wind like a shadow made of wool. Snow crusted the corners of the sidewalk, shoved into melting piles by early-morning plows. The cold bit harder than even Limbo on a slow day.

“Let the record show,” he said, pausing just outside the automatic doors that whooshed open with a mechanical sound, “this is not my natural habitat.”

A family bustled past him, the kid staring a little too long at his boots. He casually stepped away from the slush pile and into the tiled atrium, blinking as the light changed from an overcast gray to a mall-bright artificial glow.

Somewhere inside, there was music playing. It was tinny and electronic, like a war chant performed by malfunctioning machines. He turned to Maeve and Desmond with a faint smirk.

“So… is the part where we buy unnecessarily shiny objects, or the part where we eat food that might be alive?”

He wasn’t entirely joking.

Maeve stepped into the mall behind the lads, blinking like she'd just wandered onto the set of some surreal, overlit dream. The polished tile floors, fluorescent lights, and the strange scent of cinnamon pretzels mixed with perfume hit her like a wall. Her nose wrinkled. “Well... this place is loud,” she muttered, more to herself than anyone else.

She turned her head just in time to catch a display in the window of a nearby shop—lace gloves, paisley jackets, and neon-coloured bum bags piled beside a mannequin in acid-wash jeans. Her brow arched. “Is that... fashion? Looks like someone robbed a circus and ran it through a blender.” She smirked, nudging Desmond lightly with her elbow. “You’d fit right in if you added a pair of those lace gloves to your collection. Maybe even one of those neon windbreakers, if you’re feeling brave.”

Glancing back to Alaric, she added with a grin, “You said this wasn’t your natural habitat, but I’m starting to think none of this is natural. It’s like someone took all the worst ideas from clothing history and said ‘aye, that’ll do.’”

Still, despite her teasing, there was a flicker of curiosity behind Maeve’s eyes. This was new. Strange. Colourful. A far cry from windswept fields and quiet coasts—but it had its own kind of charm. Even if it was hidden beneath far too much denim.

"Alaric being overwhelmed I get." Desmond said. His amber eyes roamed across the shop fronts opposite those Maeve was. His eyes had caught hold of the big banner proclaiming the best deals on new and used Nintendo gaming systems. "But we've been to the mall before. You can't be that much of an old lady in a teenager's body, can you?"

Desmond felt his hip being ribbed as his eyes danced on the fashion pointed out. If he could've turned green with disgust, he might certainly have. But his mottled brown skin hid that fact from the world. Instead he uttered his disgust, "You've got to be kidding me. I hate neon colours. I'd rather wear those too-small sweats they had me wearing when I first arrived at the School." His eyes then landed on a display showing some Victorian-era costumes for sale. "But I'd bet you'd love one of those frilly porcelain doll dresses. The poofy skirt and frills."

Maeve followed Desmond’s gaze and scoffed as she caught sight of the frilly, doll-like monstrosities in the shop window. “Me? In one of those?” she said, brow raised. “I’d look like a cursed heirloom someone finds in an attic after the third act of a horror film. Put me in one and I’ll appear at the end of your bed whisperin’ in Latin ‘til you cry uncle.”

She said it with a smirk, the usual Maeve spark, but even Desmond—if he looked close—might have seen the slight lag in her expression after. The way her gaze lingered just a little too long on the mannequin’s empty eyes. She was still herself, still sharp, still fast with a joke—but there was something else running under the surface. A weight that hadn’t been there months ago.

A mannequin couldn’t look sick. Couldn’t get the rash.

“Still,” she added, adjusting the strap of her worn satchel, “can’t knock it too much. At least here no one’s coughing blood into their pillow or being turned away for lookin’ too different. There’s something to be said for bad fashion and burnt pretzels if it means pretending things are normal for five bloody minutes.”

And with that, she tugged one of the oversized velvet bows from the rack, handed it to Alaric with a deadpan expression. “Go on. Top off the apocalypse chic. We’ll find you a matching parasol next.”

Desmond's own smile froze. His memories of the last several months of horrors escaped the nightmare box, and invited themselves into his waking mind. Just for a moment he saw his friends getting ill, saw strangers suffering horribly painful rashes, and dying. With a conscious effort of will he pushed back against the bad thoughts. He was out with friends, they were getting lunch, he was having fun.

A slow, controlled breath shifted Desmond back into gear. He closed the distance to stand next to Maeve. He noticed the bows, and a sense of puzzlement filled him. "Why are we dressing our Prince of Hell up with bows and a parasol?"

Alaric took the bow and shook his head. "No, I don't think this says 'you'll burn' quite as well as I'd like." He laughed and put it back on the rack. "That's a good question," he said, looking from Desmond to Maeve, grinning the entire time. "Maybe she thinks if I look less like I command legions of nightmares and more like I belong in a cupcake commercial, people might stop crossing the street when they see me."

"I don't think slathering you in pink and frills will achieve that." Desmond chuckled. Desmond looked around the shop, his eyes sparkling as the light reflected of the amber resin. "It's mostly guys crossing the streets, generally when they're walking with their girlfriends. Haven't you noticed that it never seems to be the women who want to get out of your way? I think they're into the whole short, dark, and handsome."

Maeve gave Alaric a crooked smile. “Oh aye, you’ve got the broody dark thing down, no question. But you’re forgettin’—” She tipped her chin toward Desmond, giving him a slow once‑over, “—some of us don’t mind a bit of tall, green, and carved‑like‑he‑was‑meant‑to-hold-up-the-sky.” Her tone was playful enough to pass as banter, but the corner of her mouth twitched like she was only half‑joking.

She didn’t linger on it, though. Instead, she sidestepped a display of neon‑striped shirts and smirked. “Course, I wouldn’t say that too loud. Can’t have you gettin’ cocky on top of bein’ a walking redwood.” She flicked him a glance that was equal parts teasing and warm before grabbing a pair of ridiculous heart‑shaped sunglasses off a rack and tossing them his way. “Try those. Might distract from the fact you could probably knock someone clean through a wall with one arm.”

Desmond was browsing some of the tie-dye shirts the store had hanging. He was pondering if he could pull of those colours. This fashion dilemma was sandwiched between part 1 and part 2 of his internal discussion on if he could win a fight with a shark if he was underwater. It was something in Maeve's tone that drew him out of his musings. His eyes just caught the last moment of Maeve's intense studying. The internal monologue of shark-wrangling was replaced by an entirely more important conversation, 'Was Maeve checking me out? She was, wasn't she? Nah, she can't be, can she?' That meant Desmond was out of the loop as Alaric donned heart-shaped glasses.

Maeve caught the flicker of confusion on Desmond’s face, the kind of far-off look that said his thoughts had wandered somewhere deep—or dumb. Probably both, knowing him. She didn’t call him out straight away, just watched him for a moment, bemused, before casually reaching for another pair of ridiculous sunglasses—these shaped like stars and covered in a dusting of glitter that would probably never come off.

Without fanfare, she held them out to him. “Here. In case the hearts don’t quite match your towering, brooding mystique,” she said, her smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Gotta keep up, after all. Wouldn’t want the local fashion scene to suffer just ‘cause the forest man’s feelin’ modest.”

But instead of handing them over and walking on, she placed her other hand gently on his arm—just above the elbow. Her fingers rested there a heartbeat longer than necessary, the kind of touch that wasn’t loud or showy, but deliberate all the same. Grounding. Familiar. Something else.

She gave the faintest squeeze. A shared secret in the press of skin.

“Besides,” she added lightly, almost as if the gesture hadn’t just happened, “you looked like you were two seconds from throwing hands with that tie-dye. Needed to make sure you weren’t losin’ a fight with cotton blends.”

Maeve’s hand dropped away then, casually, like nothing at all had just passed between them. But she didn’t look back immediately. She just moved on to the next rack of overpriced graphic tees, letting the echo of her touch speak in the silence that followed.

Letting him decide what to do with it.

A moment later, she veered toward Alaric, tilting her head to one side with mock gravity. “Alright, fashion icon,” she said, gesturing to the glittering heart-shaped glasses he still wore. “Rate your experience so far: mall madness, demonic retail therapy, or accidental initiation into Earth’s worst cults?”

Her voice was light, her grin easy—but behind her, she left Desmond standing quiet in the glow of harsh fluorescent lights, the warmth of her touch still resting just above his elbow like it hadn’t gone anywhere at all.

Alaric finally took the glasses off. "I have to say madness. Complete and utter madness. These things aren't even practical. But maybe a hat would complete the ensemble if you're looking to add to the outfit. Let's not go with glitter or hearts, though."

Maeve gave a theatrical sigh, plucking the glasses from his hand and setting them back on the rack. “No glitter, no hearts… you’re takin’ all the fun out of it, Alaric. Next you’ll be tellin’ me you don’t want sequins either.”

She glanced toward a display of ridiculous wide-brimmed hats and plucked one free, holding it out to him with both hands like she was offering some sacred relic. “Alright then, no sparkle, but at least try this. It says ‘mysterious stranger who might read your fortune… or steal your wallet.’”

Her grin widened just a touch, sharp with mischief, before she stepped around him to keep browsing—her voice floating back lightly. “Besides, you might pull it off better than half the eejits walking around here.”

Desmond looked at his arm. Her fingers were soft, even against his thick and rough skin. He felt her. He didn't feel much though his skin, but he felt that. He needed to examine this further, better, and more intently. Fuck, he might actually need to ask her out after all. He'd dismissed that over the last year. The virus had sto... The virus. It had stopped many things in their lives, it even stopped his train of thought.

After a moment Desmond shook himself out of it. His attention brought back to the present again. His gaze was drawn to Alaric's face, and the glasses. He then looked at the glasses in his own hands. With a smirk he put them on, and grabbed the most gaudy tie-dye buckethat he could find. It was a splotchy neon orange, cerulean, and bright green.

"I think I have the perfect hat." The tree-man said as he stepped besides Alaric and pulled the buckethat onto Alaric's head, and over his eyes.

Maeve caught sight of Desmond lowering the hat onto Alaric and couldn’t help a quick laugh. “Bold choice,” she said, eyes flicking to Desmond for a beat too long. “But I’m startin’ to think you’ve got a bit of a flair for the theatrical yourself.” The warmth in her tone lingered before she drifted a step away, plucking a deep-red scarf from a nearby rack and letting the soft knit run between her fingers. She tossed it over her shoulder in a quick, casual motion, as if testing how it might look on her, before turning her attention to another display like nothing had happened.

Her gaze briefly caught on the glass storefront, where the reflection showed a pair of mall security guards lingering just beyond the shop entrance. They weren’t moving the way bored guards usually did—no idle chatting, no half-hearted scanning of the crowd. Both stood square-on, eyes fixed in a way that was just a little too steady, their expressions carved into something between disinterest and scrutiny. Maeve’s brows pinched for the briefest moment, but she smoothed it away, telling herself it was nothing. Still, the back of her neck prickled as she turned back to the rack, scarf still draped over her shoulder.

Alaric held the wide brimmed hat from Maeve in his hands, turning it over and examining every stitch and piece of leather. He liked it and was about to try it on when Desmond put one on him and pulled it down over his eyes.

Alaric slowly lifted the brim so he could see. His expression was flat and unreadable, save for his trademark smirk. But it was not annoyed. With a level tone and a dry, almost deadpan sense of humor, "Bold choice," he said, "You’re aware I have to be seen in public, right?"

Alaric shivered as a feeling crept over him, reminding him of the hundreds of times in Limbo when demons stalked him. He removed the hat from his head and placed both of them back on the rack. Then he turned to face the storefront and saw the reason for the shiver...security guards. He nodded, stoic, to let them know he acknowledged their presence.

He didn't frown or stiffen as he turned back to the others. "They're watching us," he said, "Best way to deal with it is to keep moving. We’re just here to shop."

Maeve’s laugh came easy at Alaric’s deadpan, the ridiculous bucket hat sliding down over his brow. “Saints preserve us, you’ll both get us banned from polite society before the day’s done,” she teased, tugging the red scarf from her shoulder and tossing it back onto the rack.

But then her gaze caught on the storefront glass again. The guards hadn’t moved. Not once. Not a word exchanged, not a twitch. Just… watching.

Something in her stomach twisted, and the humor in her eyes cooled.

Humans. Always watching. Always judging. Always so ready to shut the door on her people when things got hard.

Her jaw tightened. Subtle wouldn’t do. Not today.

She shifted her stance, letting her heel dig into the glossy tile. A pulse of force rippled outward from the floor beneath her boots, sharp enough to rattle the sunglass rack with a sharp clatter and make the mannequin topple sideways into the glass. The shelves near the guards’ post gave a sudden shiver, sending a row of hats tumbling down in a messy cascade. The tremor was short—no more than a second—but loud enough to make people gasp, a few heads turning as if to wonder if the mall itself had hiccupped.

Maeve smirked. Just faintly. A glance in the guards’ direction, nothing more, but it carried all the warning she needed to give. Push us, and see what happens.

“Anyway,” she said, voice light again as if the world hadn’t just rattled underfoot. She looked back to Desmond with a crooked grin, eyes glinting. “That hat’s a crime against nature, by the way. Between you and Alaric, I’m startin’ to think the mall’s about to revoke our shopping privileges.”

She nudged him lightly with her elbow, warmth in her tone that didn’t quite hide the edge still humming in her chest. Then she tilted her head toward the next shopfront, dark curls bouncing. “C’mon. Let’s keep movin’ before one of you decides sequins are the next great frontier.”

Alaric’s jaw tightened. He reached out before Maeve could take another step, his hand firm on her shoulder. His grip was not rough, but unmistakably steady. "Not again." His voice was low, but it carried that clipped, precise weight that could cut through chaos. He removed his hand from her shoulder.

His eyes stayed on hers, not on the guards. "Do you think they don’t already expect us to slip up? That’s what they’re waiting for. And you just handed them precisely what they wanted."

He let the words hang, then softened his tone just a fraction, voice dipping. "I know what it’s like to have eyes on you, to be stalked. Every move, every breath. But you can’t fight every stare. Pick the battle that matters. This?" He flicked a glance toward the toppled mannequin, the mess of hats around the guards, and the murmuring crowd. "This isn’t it."

Alaric straightened himself, his control intact and the DarkFang deep within. "Come on. We’re going to find another store or get something to eat before someone decides to make this their battle." He paused. "It's possible that we will have our shopping privileges revoked along with other punishments...but not by the mall." Alaric was more concerned with what Jean would have to say about the situation, especially if it got out of control.

Maeve’s chin dipped, dark curls slipping across her face as Alaric’s words settled in. The spark in her eyes dimmed, and for once she didn’t fire back with something sharp.

“I know what you’re sayin’, Alaric. I do. But…” Her voice wavered, the words catching. “Last year, I went into town for supplies—for someone I was lookin’ after at the mansion. Someone sick. Someone I… cared about.” She stopped, swallowing hard, then pressed on, her accent thickening with the strain. “Didn’t matter what I said or why I was there. The locals still spat at me. Called me names. One lad shoved me like I was dirt under his boot. And all I could think was—they’d rather see us die than lift a hand.”

Her laugh was bitter, hollow. “And then he did die. Virus took him anyway. Just like it’s taken more of us than I can count. Every time we start to think we’re winnin’… it rips another piece away.”

Her fingers tightened on the scarf, knuckles pale. “It’s the same feelin’ I had when my mum passed. Different cause, same hole left behind. I never really got to grieve her before the world just… kept askin’ me to grieve more. And now I don’t know where one loss ends and the next begins.”

She drew a breath and forced her head up, but when she turned her gaze it wasn’t to Alaric—it was to Desmond. Her eyes lingered, raw and unguarded, carrying the weight of everything she hadn’t said aloud before. Please don’t be next, the look seemed to beg, though her lips never gave the words shape.

Her throat worked as she straightened her shoulders, slipping the mask of lightness back over her face with effort. “But you’re right,” she said, forcing steadiness into her voice. “This isn’t the fight. Not here, not now. So… let’s move on. Before this place takes somethin’ else from us too.”

"No." Desmond's hands were balled into fists. His eyes, that normally carried a sparkle of amusement in them, now seemed to smolder with a resolute anger. Even under the flat white fluorescent lights of the store they had seemingly turned into a darker shade. His body language had grown hard. Shoulders square, chin tilted down, eyebrows furrowed. "We are not going to be scared out of a store by the mere implication of their presence." They had been pushed around, quarantined on the Xavier grounds, and shunned from polite and general society. He would not have it happen here and now.

With the same tense posture, Desmond returned to the tie-dye rack he had been browsing. From it, he pulled out a black and green shirt in the XXXL size he had grown accustomed to. It might have looked comical to some people, a giant tree-man grabbing a t-shirt carefully. It might have, if he didn't radiate the desire for a fight. "We'll leave, when we're ready. We'll pay and leave on our own accords."

Alaric held his breath for a brief moment. He knew that one wrong move meant that the three of them would be remembered as a "threat" instead of people just shopping. He didn’t flinch at Desmond’s tone or the weight behind his words. He watched him pull the shirt free and let the anger simmer before answering in a cool, deliberate cadence.

"No one’s scaring us out of anything," he said firmly. His eyes stayed on Desmond, steady and unshaken. "But there’s a difference between standing your ground and giving them the story they’re already writing about us."

He took a step closer, lowering his voice just enough that only Maeve and Desmond could hear. "You want them to see a threat? Then all they’ll remember is the ‘tree-man’ who lost his temper in the middle of the mall. That doesn’t help you. That doesn’t help us. And it certainly doesn't help the X-Men."

He paused a moment to let it sink in and then continued. His tone was softer, but no less serious. "You want to be in control? Then be in control. We walk out on our own terms, calm, and heads held high. That’s strength, Desmond. Not breaking shelves and feeding their fear. Look, you can be angry because of everything that has happened over the last year. But right now, I need you to be smarter than angry."

Maeve waited until Alaric finished before moving. Desmond’s fists were still tight, his shoulders squared like he was ready to split the floorboards in two. She stepped in close, reached up, and caught his chin in her hand. It took a bit of a tug to bring him down to her, but she held him there, up on her toes until those amber eyes finally met hers.

“This isn’t on you,” she said, low, steady. “It was me, stirring when I shouldn’t. I’m sorry, Des.”

Her hand shifted, palm warm against his cheek. For a heartbeat she left it there, thumb brushing against the grain of his skin. The noise of the mall seemed to fade, her chest tight with everything she’d swallowed for the last year. “I looked after someone in the tent last winter. Thought they might make it. Went out for supplies, only to be spat on by folk who decided I was the disease. Came back, and… he was gone. Just like that.”

Her eyes searched his, voice dropping rough. “I’ve not carried it well. Comes out sideways. Made it come out on you now. And you don’t deserve that.”

For a long, suspended moment she held him there, amber locked on green, as if the words she wouldn’t say were loud enough between them. Then, with a small shake of her head, she let her hand fall away and rocked back onto her heels.

Her gaze flicked to the shirt in his hand—black and green, bold against him. A grin, soft but wry, tugged at her mouth. “At least you’ve spared us tie-dye. That’s progress. Though I reckon you could pull it off, if anyone could.”

Desmond's mother had taught him there was a difference between strong-willed and stubborn, and how he could recognise it in himself. He had always leaned to being stubborn. This determination against the odds and advice of others had helped him in many things. From learning the violin, to running straight through the defensive line on the football field. He wanted to be stubborn now. Those security guards couldn't hurt him. Bullets didn't inflict any significant wounds, and he was strong enough he could probably bring the ceiling down without a lot of effort.

But then he felt the calmly worded advice from Alaric. Words intending to bring him back to his senses. They dampened his stubborn streak. They flowed into him like honeyed tea down a sore throat. His fists tightened. The clotheshanger with the funky shirt being compressed so tightly the plastic just turned into dust.

He hadn't realised he also found himself on one knee. The absence of warmth on his cheek made him drop the shirt to feel his cheek. His hand dropped to his side, his other hand unfurled from the wood-creaking fist. A final, deep sigh. "Fine, fine. We're leaving the store." He sounded tired, a little defeated.

With his feet back under him he nodded to the door. "We'll get some lunch. I'm in the mood for tacos, and I'm paying." He looked at his friends, "But maybe Al takes the lead out the door? He's the least-scary looking one of us." While he spoke, Desmond's hand gently found its way around Maeve's back, and rested on her outside shoulder. He used this hand to gently pull her closer to him, against him.

Maeve gasped, scandalized. “Hold on—hold on. Did you just say Alaric’s less scary than me?” She gave Desmond a look of theatrical betrayal before throwing a hand toward the sorcerer. “He’s all shadows and smoulderin’, like he crawled straight out of a haunted painting. And you—” she jabbed Desmond lightly in the side, “—are six-foot-nine of bark and brawn who could punt a car across the car park without breaking a sweat.”

She pressed her hand to her chest with exaggerated offense, red hair bouncing as she shook her head. “And me? Look at me! Five foot nothin’, hair like a matchstick, face of pure innocence. Folk see me comin’ and think I’m here to ask if they’ve accepted Jesus into their lives or to sell them a tin of biscuits for charity. Least scary of the three of us? That’s—”

Her words faltered as his arm slipped around her shoulders, warm and solid, pulling her against him. For once, Maeve’s mouth went quiet. The playful rant died halfway on her lips, her eyes flicking up to him in startled silence.

A beat passed, softer than anything she’d said before, until all she could manage was a crooked half-smile. “That’s… cheatin’, y’know,” she murmured, her voice low, before letting her head tip the smallest bit closer into his side.

"Tell you what, I'll lead the way out...regardless of normal looking. And you can just come along like you're on a date and I'm the chaperone. We should be able to walk right by, playing like that. And then we can get some food."

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