The grill belches pale smoke into the clear blue sky, and the old boombox that Sabretooth hauled out is playing ‘oldies’.

Oldies, now there’s a funny word. The music is still fresh to Sabretooth, the same way it is to Mystique who is sitting by the pool with sunscreen on her nose and a dubious expression.

‘Oldies’ are songs like ‘La Mer’, playing on the old radio in the bunker in Berlin, not these guys blessing the rains in Africa.

The blue sky, the tunes, the smell of smoking meat, the little smile on Mystique’s face. It makes the cold war seem far away. It makes the uncontrollable bloodlust seem like it might belong with the ‘oldies’.

The song changes.

“Ooga-chaka. Ooga-chaka….”

“Oh no.”

Mystique sits up in her beach chair, alarm on her face, and Sabretooth cackles, running over to scoop her up in his arms.

“I can’t stop this feelin’! Deep inside of me!”

He sings along in a powerful caterwaul and pulls Mystique in to dance with him, her eyes wide. The grimace on her face wars with a grin.

It makes all the old pain seem far away.

Maybe this time the good times will stick.