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>>> "…Or, maybe the coffee in your world is just that bad, but you got used to it over the years, and now can’t even tell good coffee when you taste it,"

"Oh, shots fired," Rupert laughed, leaning back in his chair. Relaxing. He wasn't sure he'd done that since coming here, not really. "How do you know you're not on the ignorant side of the coffee divide?"

She slid over the decaf. With all due ceremony, he raised it to his lips, and sipped. He kept up a perfectly blank face as he slid it back—not a poker face, but a coffee face.

"So I was thinking in my head that mine tasted a little like something died, and its soul came screaming out. That," he pointed to her cup, "tastes like whatever died was soulless."

In other words: yeah, it was worse. Like if someone had taken an ugly painting, and made a forgery.

"Obviously," he conceded to her comment on mothering, with a smile. For the rest of it: he thought, but was wise enough not to say, that a cute pregnant woman behind a bar counter was probably the best way to get sympathy tips ever. As for Haven… she said it like it was one of those things everybody should know. Which meant it was something that probably didn't exist back home. "What's Haven?"

>> "Oh I got a chance to try a lot of your things"

The young woman said, right before she wiggled off her shirt. With a smirk.

…Yeah, she was doing that on purpose. Still not his type, but he doubted this was about real flirting so much as it was about trying to get a reaction from him.

What kind of reaction would the other him have given? She was a mutant who'd broken into his apartment, ignored a threat on her life, and was actively snarking off at him. Based on talking to Lee, he'd say the other guy might be getting a touch irate right about now.

So what kind of reaction should he give?

"If you don't get that bra soaking now, you're never going to get the blood out," Rupert said, with perfect sympathy. "Why don't you take it off?"

Yeah, that was a little smirk on his face, too. His also wasn't about flirting; it was about saying too can play at that game, princess.

On the other hand, he also had it on good report that the other Rupert was a complete ass, and trying to be the opposite of an ass might just make him into a dick. He couldn't let this guy define him. He held up his hands, the universal—wait, did they use it in this universe?—gesture for surrender.

"Sorry, that was uncalled for. I'll get a towel; we should probably get some of that blood off before we try slapping gauze on."

Towels were in the closet right outside, but he took a moment to walk to the bedroom. He took the gun out of his belt, and slid it up on the top shelf in the closet. The young—lady was a stretch, woman was accurate, but brat was the word that kept coming to mind—the young X-Woman didn't seem like she was about to get violent on him, but he was about to be in touching range of her. The only thing worse than not having a gun if a suspect turned on you, was for the suspect to have your gun. He didn't think he was going to use it, and he didn't want it in easy grabbing range.

Back in the bathroom, towel in hand, he sat behind her on the tub ledge. Hopefully not close enough to crowd her, but it wasn't the world's biggest tub. He wet the towel down with a quick turn of the faucet. And he grabbed some gloves out of the med pack, too. Frankly, he didn't know what blood-born diseases they had on this side of the portal. Maybe spontaneous bathroom teleportation was contagious; what did he know?

>> "Yeah yeah, I'm under arrest. You do know though that we work for the police over here, right?"

You're shitting me, wasn't the most eloquent reply, but it was the first that came to mind.

"Are you seriously trying to tell me," he said, "that the NYPD, charged with protecting the people and upholding the law, is working hand-in-hand with the city's most unrepentant vigilantes? Or what, do you guys do bake sales and," he poked at her back, not quite on the cut but near enough, "blood drives on this side?"

She didn't seem to be lying. In fact, she seemed relaxed to the point of snarkary. Sure, she might have disregarded the gun at first because she thought she knew him, but now she knew she didn't. And she was still apparently at ease with him calling the cops.

The blood clean up was as good as it was getting. Still kind of oozing a little, but not as bad as it could have been. The cut was long, but most parts weren't deep. He got out a gauze pad and some tape, and got to work.

"That's going to need stitches. And I'm going to need to check out that story of yours, because either you're the best liar in two universes, or they forgot to hang a 'Welcome to Bizarro World' over that portal. Working with the X-Men," he said, like it was the craziest thing he'd ever heard. It wasn't, but it was in the top ten.

She was up before he had a chance to offer her a hand, like she'd done for him. Rupert blamed the poodle. He did manage to get the door for her, though, and when they got to the little set of steps leading from the building back to the sidewalk, he offered her his arm.

He might be overdoing it a little, but if the other Rupert was rude, then this Rupert has going to show her how much of a gentleman a Kelley could be. When he wasn't being a hateful bigot.

He made sure to walk at her pace. Eight blocks on a July day in New York was a lot like being in a pizza oven, with a humidity mister. He couldn't imagine doing this pregnant.

He looked around as they walked. He hadn't really been out and about much, and his brain had been a little too fried for processing details. He tried to keep most of the weirdness on the inside, but every once in a while they slipped out.

"Was that building always there?"

"Wait, that guy's president?"

It wasn't just the big things, either.

"Red fire hydrants? Seriously? Water is blue."

He held the door again at the coffee shop, and did a little half-bow flourish with an after you arm. And now he knew he was overdoing it, but what the heck, it was kind of fun.

Rupert was about eighty, eight-five percent sure he was cursed.

There was the obvious, of course: the whole 'came over to this universe once, happened to pick the exact day the portal shut'. But it wasn't just that. He was—used to was way to strong a phrase, he wasn't used to anything about this, but maybe he was in kind of the unreal dream-haze giddy phase of the whole denial process? Yeah, he'd go with that. He was no longer yelling at women who knocked on his door, at least. But.

But!

He was definitely, almost certainly cursed.

And though a god-fearing Catholic like himself (and he had been really, really relieved when he'd confirmed that both Christ and the Catholic church existed on this side of the portal) was not one to ascribe dark magic interpretations to his life, both his universe and this one were full of mutants, and he knew the Rupert on this side had ticked a fair few of them of.

So. Curses. Might just be a thing. Or was it a haunting? Those could also be things.

The first few nights he'd had the nightmares, he'd figured it was just normal. New universe, his subconscious was just as upset as his conscious, nightmares were going to happen. But he wasn't having nightmares of a portal closing as he did that slow-mo dream run towards it, or anything like that. Uh-uh. He was dreaming about looking down the barrel of a gun. And on the other side, the guy who was holding it? Him. A him with a lot more gray hair than he really had, and about two decades of frown lines creased into his face.

Also, things in his apartment kept tipping over, like someone was backhanding them. The first time it had happened, he'd assumed the Mirror woman was back. To be honest, he'd kind of assumed that the second and third time, too. Pranking the 'new' Rupert just seemed like something she might do. But he'd covered up every mirror in the place, and it still happened.

And then he'd found the guns hidden in the apartment vents. Filed off serial numbers, and he doubted there was any legal bill of sale lying around.

Right, then. He'd called the people that had been helping him out over at the station, and let them know he was bringing in some probably illegal guns. They hadn't seemed surprised. "After I get them exorcised," Rupert had said, and they hadn't seem too surprised by that, either.

The folks on this side kept saying how bad his side of the portal had it, but they didn't seem to realize what a piece of work theirs was.

He'd gone to the priest at his church, first. Same building, different name on the sign, different priest, but Rupert had already introduced himself last Sunday after the service and asked about what volunteer work they had open, so the guy knew him.

The guy had given him the phone number for a medium in town.

"Really?" Rupert had asked.

"You recommended him yourself," the priest had said, doing that thing people did on this side of the portal, where they kept thinking it was clever to compare him to the other guy.

The joke was getting old fast.

And so Rupert Kelley, but not that Rupert Kelley, used his shoulder to push open the door to an honest-to-god spirit medium's shop, because Rupert Kelley's arms were full of Rupert Kelley's guns. No relation.

He dropped the box on the counter, and looked around. Tacky books, tacky crystal balls, classy place no doubt. He didn't see the proprietor.

"Hello? Mr. Brooks?"

Mr. Tarin Brooks. His name was on piece of paper the priest had scribbled out for him. It was also on a box of bullets rattling around with the guns. Rupert wasn't so sure this was a great idea. But apparently the old Rupert had been a walking ball of bad ideas, and he'd managed to survive talking to the guy.

What was the worst that could happen?

She had a good smile on her. And while it might be a little sexist, and probably the ladies down at the station would swat him upside the head for the thought, he didn't see how he could be an asshole to a woman that smiled like that. Rupert smiled back, the goofy grin of a guy who hadn't spent the last twenty years hating on part of the population.

"Is Blaine your—" a quick glance at that hand around her coke bottle, but no ring "—partner? And your kid's Kevin, right? He's a cutie. Any power on him, yet?"

The kid didn't exactly have rabbit ears, but that didn't mean he didn't have something. Rupert didn't know how it was on this side, but back home researchers were about ready to hit their heads into a wall over how powers were actually inherited. Best as he could tell, mutants usually had mutant kids, but the powers they actually ended up with were some kind of lottery the universe was running.

Second drawer from the left, and third one down. Behind the paper towels. That's where the gun was.

Why the fuck was there a gun behind his paper towls?

"You paranoid nut job," Rupert complained, and the dog who he refused to call anything as stupid as Flipsy barked in agreement. Or maybe to defend her old master. He didn't speak mini-poodle. "What, did you think someone was going to attack you while you were making your eggs, you--?"

There was a crash from the bathroom.

The bathroom he'd just cleaned. He'd poured chemicals at the tub until all the gunk stains were exocised, he'd cleaned out the cabinet under the sink so the man's industrial-sized first aid kit actually fit, he'd scrubbed that goddamn floor until it was white. The shower curtain was in his laundry basket, the cleaning supplies were on the floor, the toilet seat was down for once in its life. There was nothing in there that could crash. Not under its own power.

He looked down at the mini-poodle arthritically pawing at his sock. She stared back up at him through her gray cataracts, her jaw open in a it wasn't me, dad smile.

Right, then. Rupert pushed the paper towels out of the way, and grabbed the gun. Just a quick check—and of course it was loaded. Why'd he ever suspect anything less.

Socked feet over carpet. He tried not to make any noise until he was at the half-open door, and then he took a deep breath, and slammed it all the way open with his shoulder. Feet braced. Both hands on the gun. Aim at the center of mass, don't be a sucker who gets fancy with headshots.

There was a young woman standing inside. Twenty-two, twenty-three?

A young X-Woman. She was dripping blood on his floor.

The floor he'd just cleaned.

Rupert was done with this universe. He cocked the gun, and kept the woman in his sights and his finger on the trigger. He didn't recognize this one from back home, which meant she could have pretty much any power. He didn't like shooting people, he didn't want to shoot her, but she was an X-Man. He hadn't read up on their exact status over here, but as far as he could tell, this universe wasn't all that different from his. The X-Men were wanted criminals, and they could get damn violent. He'd found, from long experience, that the best way to not get frozen or cold-cocked or dragged off into a friggin mirror—god, that guy/girl/whatever was such a little shit—was to look so close to shooting that doing anything to startle him was going to end up with a hole through somebody.

"Is there a reason," Rupert asked, "that you're bleeding on my floor?"

The poodle trotted in after him, and started wagging its tail at the woman. A right genius, that dog.

"Anger issues, huh? I'll, ah, look out for those." And she could tell, within about thirty seconds of meeting him, that he had a better grip. Considering he didn't have a grip on any of this, that was probably saying something for the other guy.

The other guy, who she cared enough about to come check on, but was totally okay with him insulting. He was sensing an odd dynamic, here. What, was Rupert that estranged uncle that no one else would put up with?

Whoa, scary thought. What was his family like, here? Would they even think of him as family?

Four months to Thanksgiving. He'd have to figure it out by then, or there was a fantastically awkward turkey dinner in his future.

He… didn't need to think about that right now. Rupert ran a hand through his hair, and went to the fridge. Coke. Right. Two cokes, coming up. He wouldn't have minded something a little stronger, but looking at this guy's place was some kind of cautionary tale.

"You want a cup, or ice?" He called, and served the lady her coke as she desired. For himself… just the can. He set it down on top of an old bill—a good a coaster as any—and hurried to make the couch presentable. Or at least sit-able. "Here, take a seat."

He sat down on the opposite end. After sufficient scratching at his pants, he lifted the poodle up, too.

Lee met him—the other him—when he—the other he? God, he needed a better way to think about this. She met that guy when the no-relation-to-himself asshole pulled a badge on her. And add 'abuse of authority' to the score board.

Rupert drank his coke, and managed to stop from sinking his head into his hands as she explained the first time still-thinks-fedoras-are-cool Rupert met her.

"Wow, that's… wow. I'm sorry he put you through that, Lee. If you don't mind my asking… why were you friends with him?"

He was kind of hoping—nay, puppy dog eyeing—for something redeemable, here. But for the grace of God go I, and all that.

"And, ah. Thank you. For trusting me to know you're a mutant. I don't know how it is here, I guess, but back home that can be a big deal. I won't go gabbing about it. I'm human, as you... probably knew."