So this wrote up fast! And there's a couple of headcanons buried in here— one being that Raven and Irene really are her mothers (using the original idea Marvel had for Kurt's parentage), the other being that Raven actually 'named' the girl, simply because she's always liked the name. And please imagine if it was canon: Raven would completely disregard 'Anna-Marie' and 'Rogue' for "Lena, dear...", and it would send Rogue into a crazy-eyed rabid snit every single time. Tell me that wouldn't be just a tad humorous.

Anyway, as always, enjoy, and do let me know what you think!

She'd happened just over an hour ago, a tiny, squalling thing, so red, she was nearly purple, bald as day is long, and twice as hungry.

Raven gently shifts the fussy newborn from her shoulder to her breast, making subtle body shifts to regulate her chemistry to that of a brand new mother with milk, and lets her daughter root around til she latches on for another nursing.

Lena. That's what she's calling her in her head, anyway. Not that it matters, they won't be keeping her. Raven has no place in her life for a baby, nor does she feel compelled to make room for one.

She glances over at Irene hard at sleep in the bed, her weaker frame worn out from sixteen hours of back labor. She will feel different about keeping the baby; Irene wants her. Raven does, too, else she wouldn't have assumed certain parts of male anatomy to make it happen, but she has absolutely no desire to raise the child. The girl will be much more interesting after her power manifests.

And manifest, it will, and what a spectacular mutation it will be! Raven has seen the books, she has seen the girl coming back to them, has seen the potential. She and Irene, together with their daughter. A shapeshift, a precog, and a leech. They'll be a hell of a front to best!

Of course, nothing is guaranteed, not even in Irene's books, and there's to lot of those diaries she hasn't even seen.

Yet.

She glances down at the infant drifting to sleep, her latch slack, and milk dribbling out the corner of her mouth. She wonders if Irene had foreseen how it was going to happen, Raven giving her up. Irene doesn't see everything, and Raven had nearly driven herself batshit in figuring out there isn't a real rhyme or reason to what she does see- sometimes it's something of utmost importance, other times, it's something so remarkably insignificant as to be laughable. And then there's the part where Irene withholds things she's seen.

Raven feels an old surge of resentment flare at that, and slides narrowed, yellow eyes at her sleeping lover. A reasonable part of her completely understands why Irene holds out on her. Obvious fucking-with-time-consequences reasons aside, Raven understands that Irene has never been what one called an open individual. Irene has always held her cards to her chest and kept her face straight. She supposes that comes with the territory of knowing too much and feeling responsible with maintaining the known over the unknowns. It still chaps that she could do so much if only she had all the information! So many more circumstances tilted in her favor...

Mostly, it burns her raw that Irene doesn't trust her with the diaries. Doesn't trust that she wants to maneuver things for the better. Better for them. Better for her sons, too, in spite of the moronic paths both idiots have taken.

Better for her daughter, too.

Lena begins to fret again, irritably kicking out her leg and fussing. Raven traces an indigo thumbtip across Lena's brows, down her nose, over and over, humming an old German lullaby in attempt to soothe the baby. Special, is this one—

Lena suddenly stiffens, then squirms into full-fledged screams, furiously kicking her legs, her whole body shaking. The blanket falls to the floor, and Raven hisses at her daughter's exposed thigh. There, that bit of pinked, irritated skin, barely peeking out of her diaper...

No. No. no, no, no, nonono...

Raven yanks up the gusset, and growls out rapid-fire curses in every language she knows at the unmistakably flirtatious words welting up gold on Lena's skin.

A soulmark.

Her daughter has a goddamn soulmate.

She flings Irene a look, and flattens her mouth. She'd already lost one soulmate and had been about to kill the other when her words had burned along the line of a rib, and she feels the same rip of annoyance now as she had then. Soulmates get in the way, and she always outlives them anyway, so what was the fucking point?

Horribly inconvenient loves of your life at their very best, and absolute utter heartbreaks, at their worst. Of all her offspring to be saddled with a soulmate, it seems especially cruel for this little one.

"No matter," she murmurs to the child in a low pitch, standing to shush and bounce the tiny girl back to sleep. "Whoever he might be, this soulmate will not stop you. Will not hurt you."

And he won't. She'll see to it personally, at whatever cost.