Disclaimer: the X-Men and the distinctive likeness thereof are the property of Marvel. I don't own them and am never likely to: I'm merely borrowing them without permission and don't plan to inflict any permanent damage on them. Unlike those who actually get paid to write about them
J This brief piece is set immediately after X-Men #109 and endeavours in its own modest fashion to address certain dangling subplots. Any feedback, positive or negative, so long as it's constructive, is welcome and craved, and should be directed to Latex1@tinyonline.co.uk. Let me know what you think, otherwise I'll never get any better JGrant Me Grace
By
Latex
As the rain beat its staccato rhythm against the windows, Piotr Nickolaievitch Rasputin stared at the canvas before him, face expressionless and only his eyes betraying the frustration and turmoil within. There was a sharp cracking sound as the brush he was holding snapped from the pressure exerted upon it by his thumb.
Wordlessly, lacking even the energy to hurl the pieces across the room in frustration, he let his arm fall to his side and the brush from his fingers to the floor, the two broken halves skittering across the bare wood for a few inches before coming to rest. All the while, his eyes remained fixed on the canvas, his jaw set and the muscles under the skin bunching.
"I was under the impression that painting was meant to relax you, 'little brother'." Nothing in his posture revealed his surprise, although Peter had not heard Ororo enter the room.
"When it goes right, it does," he answered without turning his head, his voice even and uninflected. "But it cannot be forced, and all my efforts seem to be in vain tonight. I am just not feeling especially creative at the moment, and I cannot make myself paint. Or at least not well," he allowed, his features softening a little and the ghost of a smile appearing around his lips. "It either flows or it does not and, right now, it does not."
"Is something bothering you, Peter?" Ororo asked. "You have not seemed yourself recently; is there anything you would like to talk about?"
"What would I say?" Peter asked with quiet and unexpected vehemence. "That I am unsure of everything in my life? That I question everything? The Dream, my place with the X-Men, my worth as a man? That I am lost inside, that I am no longer certain even of who I am?"
"I assume that these doubts did not manifest themselves overnight," Ororo said softly, gently taking Peter's hand in her own. He looked at her, seemingly aware for the first time of the disparity in their appearances: she with her customary understated elegance and poise, he in a T-shirt and sweatpants that, numerous washes and innumerable paint stains ago, might once have been grey, paint flecks and smudges on both clothing and exposed skin and hair.
"No, they did not," he said quietly. "In the beginning, when Professor Xavier persuaded a young boy from a Siberian farm that his abilities carried with them a responsibility to use them for the greater good, I did not question that he was right, or even his definition of that greater good. Over the years since we joined the X-Men, you and I, we have fought countless menaces, saved the world innumerable times, yet despite our efforts, all our sacrifices, is Charles Xavier's Dream any closer to becoming a reality?" Turning, he walked away from the canvas and with a sigh sank heavily on to an old, overstuffed sofa. Ororo followed, sat beside him, her every move graceful, her pose attentive.
"My parents and my sister are dead," Peter continued, "in part, perhaps, because of the life I lead. For a time I joined Magneto, hoping that his way would yield the results that the X-Men had not, yet I grew disillusioned with that, too and now, after Excalibur, I find myself back with the X-Men. And what has changed? Read the papers, watch the television, and you will see stories of Robert Kelly's assassination." His voice rose. "He was killed, Ororo, because he dared speak out in defence of mutants. Every day, the world hates us a little more, merely because we are born different."
"Forgive me, Peter, but these are not new issues," said Ororo softly, her hand resting lightly on Peter's. "Is there something else behind your disquiet?"
"Moira and Everett are gone," Peter continued, emphasising every word. "Kitty is still missing despite our best efforts, and all we have is one of Logan's bone claws, given us by the dubious intermediary of Viper no less; are we supposed to take this as proof that all is well with her? It is slim proof, Ororo, and I cannot make so facile and great a leap of faith when my own belief in everything I once held to be dependable wavers." He paused, the air still charged from the anger in his voice, leaned back into the sofa, his eyes closed, a look of frustration on his face as he searched for the right words. Ororo did not press him and, eventually, he spoke, weighing every word carefully and with great deliberation.
"A short while ago, although it seems now like a lifetime, I was on the Starcore space station. During our time there, and I am still unsure quite how or why, Rogue and I discovered that we could touch each other without her absorbing my psyche. She was upset about Gambit, I wished only to comfort her, and…."
"One thing led to another, as the cliché goes," Ororo supplied, no judgement in her voice and her surprise, if she felt any, well hidden.
"Yes. I have… feelings for her, Ororo," he admitted, not looking at her. "I had thought, had hoped, that her entanglement with Remy LeBeau had reached an end and, besides, I have never considered them suited. I believe that she is better off without him and I dared hope, for one brief moment, that I might provide her with what he could not." Abruptly he stood and began pacing, the tension and anger in his voice matched by the motion of his body.
"It seems, however, that she is far from over him, and I have exposed my feelings to her, and myself to ridicule and rejection."
"Do you truly believe that Rogue would ridicule you?"
"No," he admitted quietly, "but I must now stand by and watch as she throws herself at a man who is unworthy of her and incapable of commitment. I know he is your friend, Ororo, but this is how I feel."
"Can the two of you still touch?" Ororo asked, avoiding that issue by changing from one awkward topic to one potentially as problematic.
"No," Peter replied. "Whatever circumstances allowed it to happen on the station do not appear to exist here. But that has no bearing on my feelings for her. Do you remember, Ororo, a time when Rogue actually took pleasure in life? Her powers have always acted as a barrier to any physical relationship but, while this sometimes depressed her, she accepted it, she dealt with it. Despite all the difficulties and trials we have endured, her spirit remained uncrushed, she remained positive, capable of experiencing joy." He walked back toward Ororo.
"She never wallowed in self-pity until Gambit entered her life. I do not believe that he intentionally toys with her emotions," he continued, cutting off any potential objection from Ororo, although none was forthcoming, "but nevertheless it pains me to see her so anguished and angst-ridden over a man who is not worth her tears. She seems to believe that they belong together; I do not. However," he continued, bitterness etched in every syllable, "that is a matter of opinion and mine, it is apparent, does not."
"So what do you intend to do?" asked Ororo, no weighting to the question, no implication that she expected a particular answer.
"I have little choice but to respect her decision, although I disagree with it. Given the difficulties she has been experiencing with her powers of late, I doubt that she would appreciate any pressure from me." Ororo had no answer to give that would make Peter feel better, and did not attempt one. Instead, she rose and crossed the distance between them, laying her hand gently on his cheek.
"Oh, Peter," she murmured in sympathy, encircling his waist with her arms and hugging him. His arms went around her, some of the tension draining from his form, the simple embrace, the physical expression of affection and compassion, of more help to him more at that moment than any well-intentioned words could ever have been.
Ribs snapped beneath her foot. Pivoting, using her momentum, Elizabeth Braddock spun on the ball of her other foot and drove the heel of her hand into Sabretooth's nose, her full weight behind the blow, and was rewarded by the satisfying crunch of cartilage under her palm even as his blood flowed freely over it. He staggered back, the damage repairing itself even as he did, his eyes coming back into focus and locking on her. With a snarl, he threw himself at her, hand drawn back and fingers hooked, ready to eviscerate her on the downswing. He never got the chance.
Dropping to a crouch, she spun and scythed his legs out from under him. He tumbled clumsily to the ground, up again almost as soon as he'd hit, a homicidal rage distorting his features, but his fall had given her enough time to manifest her psychic katana. He charged again, slashing wildly at her. She parried every thrust with her telekinetic blade, the look of absolute attention to the task at hand on her face making the movements seem almost idle, hearing his bones break and seeing them mend themselves even as it happened.
Focusing her concentration, she honed the blade's edge to razor sharpness and calculatedly, deliberately, sliced through his outstretched arms as he lunged at her, peripherally aware of his severed hands hitting the ground as he continued forward. Stepping aside as his momentum carried him past her, she stabbed the blade into the centre of his body, his own motion causing the blade to slide through his body and disembowel him. Hot blood spattered her arms as she withdrew the blade, her opponent skidding to a halt in a pool of his own blood opposite her, the hatred on his face warring with shock.
The grievous wound was already beginning to heal, his mutilated arms folded tight over it in a protective gesture and, given time, she imagined that they too would do so, although an errant -and arguably irrelevant- thought occurred to her as she assumed the appropriate stance with her blade: would the hands regrow by themselves of would they have to be held in place while the connecting tissue regrew? But it was a passing and idle curiosity and she let it go as, stepping forward, she swung her blade in a graceful arc and decapitated him.
The body stood for a moment, swaying, then the knees gave way and it fell to the ground with a thud. She locked gazes with the sightless eyes of the severed head for a moment, the face still fixed in an expression of mixed rage and surprise, before the head, body and spilt blood faded out of existence, leaving just the Danger Room.
"Certainly kicked his ass." The dry observation was accompanied by the smell of cigar smoke.
"What do you want, Logan?" Betsy asked in a level tone of voice, although it was clear from her body language and expression that she did not welcome the intrusion. Logan pointedly and deliberately ignored both.
"See how you're doin'."
"Better than Creed," she responded caustically, although some of the tension drained from her posture as she allowed the telekinetic katana to disappear.
"An' that's a fact," he agreed with a small and affectionate smile, allowing her that point. "Nice trick. Worked pretty well against a hologram. Pretty realistic programmin', by the way. Be interestin' to see if it worked on the genuine article."
"At the risk of repeating myself, Logan, what do you want?"
"Like I said, see how you are."
"You've come to check on me? Make sure I'm all right in the wake of my traumatic break up with Warren?" Her every syllable dripped sarcasm, but Logan didn't rise to it.
"Somethin' like that," he responded evenly.
"I imagine this would be the part where you tell me what a shit Warren is, that you never liked him anyway and how I'm better off without him, yes? Give me the benefit of your great wisdom and experience?"
"That what you want?"
"Oh, piss off," she snapped, but there was no real vehemence in it. "Why is everything with you a fucking competition?" She ran a hand through her hair. "Oh, don't worry about me," she continued bitterly, and with no small degree of irony, "I'll be fine. It's not like it was ever anything more than a bit of fun anyway." She swallowed, eyes bright, fighting back tears.
"I imagine everyone's just waiting to see who's my next conquest, waiting for me to try to fuck Neal, right? Because I'm Betsy Braddock, the X-Men's resident whore, right? Wears skimpy leotards, flirts with everything in pants; it's not like she's got any depth or any real emotion, no real feelings!" She stopped, emotion getting the better of her, unable to speak through the tears running down her cheeks. Logan's hand closed on her shoulder, squeezed it.
"Anger ain't the same as strength, Betts," he said quietly.
"Fucking bastard!" she sobbed, hitting out at him with her fists, the blows not hard and certainly not augmented by her telekinesis, and Logan wasn't sure whether she was speaking about him, or Warren, or the X-Men, or life in general. He drew her to him, the blows hitting his chest weaker and the weeping more muffled as she buried her face in his shoulder and cried as she had never allowed herself to do in front of Warren when he'd told her it was over.
He kissed her hair, murmuring soothing words, and she held him tightly enough to leave bruises on any other man, clinging to him as though her life depended on it. At length, she disengaged from him and began to pace, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, her movements infused with tension and inarticulate frustration. Logan watched her pace, exhaled a lungfull of smoke.
Reaching the wall, she slumped against it, sliding down until her forehead rested on her knees, even that motion infused with grace. Wordlessly, Logan walked over to her, the heels of his boots echoing on the floor the only sound in the room, and sat down beside her. Reaching out, he draped his arm around her shoulders and, unresisting, she sank against him, resting her head on his shoulder.
"I see how they look at me," she sniffed. "Like I'm the team slut. Just because I'm not a telepath any more, I'm not completely oblivious to nuance. Poor Warren," she continued in a satiric vein, her bitterness and sarcasm evident, "what a saint he was to put up with me for so long, the way I made eyes at anything that moved.
"Does anyone castigate Kurt for flirting with women? Why am I so different? Why does everyone just assume that Warren's the only one with dignity, with genuine feelings, with an ego to bruise, to be humiliated by my tart-like behaviour?" An edge of weariness overcoming the bitterness in her tone.
"Whatever I may think of Worthington, darlin', I am sorry things've worked out like this. He's a fool for lettin' his pride an' insecurities get in the way. But it's done."
"So what now? Do I just move on? Throw myself at Neal and validate everyone's perception of me as the resident trollop, preying on the poor, defenceless newcomer?"
"Your choice, darlin'. I'm not here to lecture you. Just didn't want you thinkin' that nobody cared about you an' what you were goin' through. Whatever you may think, Betsy, you don't have to be alone, or assume that everyone's gonna take Warren's side. You ain't the team whore, an' you don't have to play that role. You got friends, Betts, an' if it comes down to a choice between you an' him, you know which way I'm gonna go." He kissed the top of her head. "Now go have a shower. You want to talk about this any more, you know where to find me."
"Thank you, Logan," she responded simply.
"Any time, darlin'."
Kurt Wagner walked into the kitchen, tail twitching absently behind him, his mind on the conversation he'd just had with Peter Rasputin. Peter had been raised an atheist, Kurt Catholic, their instinctive viewpoints on even so fundamental an issue as the existence of God diametrically opposed, yet Kurt had come away from their conversation with the impression, certainly the hope, that his words had been of some comfort to his friend. In truth, all Kurt had really done was listen to Peter, as Ororo had before him, but his opinion when sought and expressed had served to validate the decision Peter had already reached himself, which in and of itself had seemed to give him some measure of peace.
He smiled to himself at the thought that the direction he had chosen for his life, the path to the priesthood, was not so incompatible with the direction life had chosen for him, that of an outcast mutant superhero, as one might necessarily imagine. Some abilities and skills it seemed, certain predispositions and aspects of his personality, were transferable and were appropriate in and applicable to either role.
So immersed in his own thoughts was he that the presence of Betsy, when he looked up to see her chopping vegetables, took him by surprise. Nevertheless, the smile following the brief start was genuine and warm and, as his thoughts shifted from Peter's feelings for Rogue and the vicissitudes and ironies of life to Betsy's recent break-up with Warren, tinged with concern.
"How are you?" he asked.
"In the light of recent developments appertaining to my love life?" she responded flippantly. "Is there anyone who doesn't know?"
"The grapevine is very efficient." Kurt acknowledged her point with a dry smile.
"I've been better, Kurt," she admitted with a sigh, setting aside the knife with which she was chopping onions, the mutilated vegetables littering the chopping board before her, "but I'll be all right. Thank you, though, for asking." Kurt shrugged.
"We are all X-Men; if we do not look out for each other, who else will? Besides, that is what friends do, no?"
"It is," she confirmed with a small smile. "I just keep wishing that there was something I could do, some concession I could make, to get Warren to change his mind, even to talk to me. I think I'm probably in Stage Three," she added with a wry, sad smile.
"Stage Three?" Kurt asked.
"Of the bereavement process," she elaborated. "The four stages are denial, anger, bargaining and acceptance. I was going through the second one with Logan earlier, and I seem to have reached the third."
"I was just speaking with Peter," Kurt said with a thoughtful look on his face, "and, without betraying any confidences, some part of that conversation might be relevant. There is an old, traditional prayer that I have often found of use. It goes 'Lord, grant me the grace to accept what I cannot change, the courage to change what I cannot accept, and the wisdom to know the difference.' Whether or not you believe, I have found that it serves to focus the mind and it has helped me in the past."
"Ah, the Ward's Prayer," Betsy commented with an enigmatic smile. "I've heard a slightly different version. It goes: 'Lord, grant me the grace to accept what I cannot change, the courage to change what I cannot accept, and the wisdom to hide the bodies of the people I had to kill today because they pissed me off. Help me also to be careful of the toes I tread on today, as they may be connected to the arse I have to kiss tomorrow.' Do you think it'll catch on?"
"It is not quite so traditional," Kurt responded, unable to hide his smile, "but not without a certain merit. I will consider including it in future sermons."
"Glad to have been of help," Betsy said, her smile all irreverent affection. "Given the role I just played in the development of your next sermon, 'Father' Wagner, I think it's only fair that you help me. So if you'd like to take a knife you can make yourself useful and chop the mushrooms."
"Always a pleasure to assist so lovely a lady," Kurt replied, taking the proffered knife. Betsy's brow momentarily furrowed, her eyes focused on something Kurt could not see, and the voice of Maria Callas issued from the speakers of the stereo on the other side of the kitchen. He looked at Betsy, raised an eyebrow.
"Yes, I'm refining my control," she responded in acknowledgement of his unspoken question. "I imagine I just needed something more real and tangible than picking up a coin from the Danger Room floor." Kurt accepted her somewhat acerbic point with a gracious tilt of his head.
They stood there, side by side, slicing vegetables in companionable silence, the rain drumming on the window drowned out by Puccini's Un bel di vedremo, the harsher reality of the outside world temporarily forgotten in the warmth and security of the kitchen, and the comfort and unspoken acceptance afforded by friendship.
And, if only for that time, in that place, there was peace.