The Hamlet of the Mutant World

Even now, after all this time, Jamie Madrox was never one for routine. He’d managed for a while, shortly after his suicide attempt, but besides his daily standing appointment with Reid and baseball practices, he’d done away with it almost entirely, preferring instead to wait and see, playing things by ear in case something more interesting cropped up. Layla’s arrival, however, had been something of a spanner in the works. He’d spent the past six months carefully maintaining the noir aesthetic as best he could -- a feat in which he was not entirely successful, admittedly -- but in the time it had taken her to get the beginnings of a tan, he’d gone from archetype to burgeoning person. He showered. He slept. He was wearing a shirt that bore no semblance to his old uniform. He was, in fact, just finishing his second meal of the day, and he knew there was likely to be a third by the time evening rolled around if she had anything to do with it -- which, of course, she would.

To call her a positive influence would be the understatement of the year -- then I remember the year’s only just started, and I should have really learned about counting my chickens before they’ve hatched by now.

Pushing aside his empty plate, Jamie leaned in his chair, pushing off the ground so that it balanced precariously on the two back legs. He had one hand resting on his stomach.

"You know," he said to Layla, "at this rate I might actually have to start working out."