The boy peered around the corner of the abandoned warehouse into the dark alleyway at the mutant man and woman who stood over the dead gunman from 31st Street.
He'd seen them once before -- the boy had -- killing a mutant who had preyed on the homeless kids and so he wasn't afraid.
He watched as the woman, the one that was better lit by the moonlight, leaned into the darkness to seemingly kiss the man whose blades were still out on his hands, bloody and glinting.
"Wolverine," she said softly.
She knelt down over the body, the platinum streaks in her hair visible like a halo pulled back into her ponytail. It was her the gunman had shot at, but it had been him who was hit by the bullets. Her black-clad figure stayed that way for some moments as the man stepped forward into the light.
Even though his face remained shadowed the boy could tell he was part animal, a werewolf or some beast of a man. His figure over their forms seemed to frame the scene of the killer having met his maker.
"Rogue," he murmured, and she stood up.
The boy heard the metal claws retract into his hands just as his face, if the boy could've seen it clearly, seemed to tilt in his direction. It was confirmed when the woman looked over her shoulder, back at where he was peeking out.
He remembered thinking how like angels they seemed, even like that after catching him. Avenging angels who fought where he couldn't and won. And he loved them for it.
"Wolverine and Rogue," he mouthed soundlessly.
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