Disclaimer: I own nothing of this series.
Summary: Certain they would turn him away, but knowing nowhere else to go, Lance approaches the X-men for help when his team is stricken ill. AU set post-"No Good Deed" ignoring Apocalypse storyline.
Author's Note: This is a one-shot, and unlikely to be continued. It can fit in the same world as my previous story "Encounters," though I do not imagine it to fit into the same universe as "Dirty Deeds."
Title is a line from the song "Ride the Lightning" by Metallica.
…
(Take It) All Away
…
What a case of déjà vu.
Lance sighed as he stared up at the imposing gates of Xavier's precious Institute. For a second time, he'd come here in the dead of night, intending to see the man in the wheelchair. For the second time, he felt like he had abandoned his team. And for the second time, he was seriously considering knocking down the gates in a fit of impassioned idiocy.
Wincing, he rubbed a hand against his forehead. Nope, that wasn't going to be happening tonight. Avalanche was out of commission. Time for Lance to take a shot.
Although Lance could plow down the gates with the Jeep, he simply wasn't up to that. He seriously considered pressing the intercom button for a minute, but shook his head instead of doing so. His only chance at getting Xavier to listen was to make one of his typical approaches to the Institute. Namely, something generally considered questionable and way below the goody-goodies' behavior standards.
It was easier than he expected to hop the gate. He didn't have a cumbersome bag to impede his efforts, which helped a lot. But he also had a faintly pounding headache, which meant he wobbled at the top and nearly crashed to the ground. He had to kneel for a moment to catch his breath once on Institute land. Then he rose to his feet and set off at an unsteady wobble up the incredibly long, winding driveway.
Seriously. Who the heck needed a driveway this long?
The alarms had to have gone off by now, but Lance was surprised to find that he wasn't dodging laser beams left and right. The insane security measures at the Institute were enough of a deterrent for himself and his team. The Brotherhood wasn't crazy, even if they were a bit…well, stupid. Joining Mystique and Magneto was proof enough of that.
He shook his head to clear it. No use going on that ramble now, he had a mission and he was going to complete it. It was their only chance.
The lights in the big glass entry hall flipped on, searing his eyes with light. With a headache, the effect on his unadjusted eyes was worse. He grunted, clapping a hand over his eyes. Through the cracks in his fingers he could see shadows and forced himself to drop his hand.
He squinted at the welcoming party. All the usual suspects responded to a late-night visitor to the X-Mansion. Fantastic. Though against this many mutants only an absolute idiot or a powerful enemy would think of fighting their way in.
Maybe they remembered his last visit and wondered where his bags were—except Summers, who looked ready to attack. He held up his hands. "Easy—I'm not here for a fight."
Summers didn't relax the ready hand on his visor even a fraction of an inch. "Then what are you here for?"
"I need to talk to Xavier."
He could feel their stares on his back.
The uncomfortable weight reminded Lance of the bad relationship between the X-geeks and the Brotherhood. Ever since Pietro's "superhero Brotherhood" stunts, relations between the two teams had been icy. Kitty hadn't even spoken to him since then, and yet she joined team crowding the doorway of Xavier's study.
As he faced Xavier, it was her presence he could feel the most. He tried his hardest to ignore it.
Behind the imposing wood desk, Xavier appeared to be carved of stone. Serene Storm stood behind him, while Wolverine leaned indifferently against the wall on the professor's right-hand side. McCoy had taken a puffy chair on the other side of the professor, completing the pattern. The four adults of the Institute were almost intimidating.
Strange Lance would think that, when he had faced down cops, social workers and school officials.
Then again, he wasn't here about himself.
His strength could only carry him so far and he wasn't sure he would be able to stand again if he took a seat. Instead, he stood beside the chair and rested a hand on the back of it. He could only hope they didn't notice his white-knuckled grip on the wood.
The professor rested his chin on his fingertips. "Mr. Alvers, what do you need to speak with me about?" Lance thought the telepath would have pried into his mind already. He was prepared for immediate denial, for Xavier to turn him away. Looked like he'd get to make a plea for his case.
"I need a favor." Lance didn't have to be psychic to detect the glares aimed at his back. Wolverine straightened from his slouch.
Xavier didn't hesitate. "What is it?" Apparently the good professor was more than willing to listen.
Lance allowed himself a breath of relief. "My team is sick. Really sick," he added, struggling to find the right words. "I thought we could handle it, but." He ran a hand nervously through his hair. "They're getting worse. I tried to take them to the hospital. They turned us away 'cause we're mutants." There was a shift in the room's tension. He tried desperately not to start begging. "Magneto hasn't been around in months. I don't know who else to go to. We don't have the money, but—"
"Money is not a concern," Xavier rebuked strongly. He turned to his right-hand man, but Wolverine spoke before he could.
"'Ro and I'll take the van over." He was already walking past Xavier's desk as he made the statement. Storm also walked forward, making a detour to approach Lance. He stiffened at the close proximity, at the unfamiliar touch of her hand squeezing once around his shoulder. Confused by her compassion, he nearly forgot to halt her passing with an outstretched hand.
Behind him, he heard McCoy stating that he would prepare the medical wing—and the Professor instructing the team to go down to the foyer to wait for Wolverine and Storm to return, if they were insistent on helping. Even with the movement around him, Lance focused more on the white-haired woman who waited patiently.
Realizing that his hand was on her wrist, he withdrew quickly and said, "Use this." He sucked in a breath as he had to dig through his other pocket to get the house key, which involved letting go of the chair. He dropped the key in her hand while pretending he hadn't swayed from the dizziness. She took it with an air of solemn respect, a weird sensation that left him scrambling to cover his discomfort with handing over the key. "Careful when you go in. Noise hurts Wanda—"
"Noise?" The interruption was soft-spoken, hesitant.
His eyes flickered to Kitty, who had come a few steps into the room though the others save the three of them and Xavier had all cleared out. "She has a bad migraine. Just—keep that in mind, okay? All our rooms are on the second story."
Storm nodded. "We shall be as considerate as possible," she promised. "Is there anything more we should know?" Though there was plenty he could say—defend the messy state of the house, assure them that blankets were enough despite a lack of heat—there was nothing that could affect his friends' health in transit. Lance shook his head and Storm left the room.
Xavier took the opportunity to show his concern. "Kitty, why don't you show Lance down to the medical wing?"
Almost before he finished speaking, Lance was shaking his head. "I want to be where they're brought in." Xavier didn't seem to be receptive of his argument. "I have to make sure they're okay."
"You'll be in the medical bay with them," the professor argued. Lance opened his mouth to deny it, but was cut off. "You need our help as well, Lance. I could tell when you stepped into this mansion that you were not only exhausted, but also very ill."
"I'm not as bad as they—"
"But you have taxed almost all of your strength. By taking care of so many others, you didn't take care of yourself to prevent the illness from taking firm hold. You can barely stand right now." His denials were useless when he knew Xavier was right. "I admire and value your dedication to your team, but you must think of yourself as well." There was true concern in the professor's eyes.
Lance wanted to wipe away the compassion he saw there. He knew that he was sick, but he also knew his priorities, his responsibilities. "I know I'm not at the top of my game, here, Xavier, but that's my family!"
"Lance." The tone was stern, although the sympathy written all over Xavier's face deepened. "I'm afraid I must insist."
Lance bit his lip. He really didn't like the idea of being in the medical bay when his teammates were brought in, but he had a feeling that Xavier would psychically blast him to get his way. The good professor wasn't above doing what he felt was necessary, no matter what his students thought of him.
A delicate hand touched his elbow, and his eyes drifted to Kitty's face. She peered up at him anxiously, but there was a hint of steel in her gaze. "Lance, please. Listen to the professor."
It was her quiet plea that did the trick. He just couldn't bring himself to deny her, even now. Even though she probably only did it at Xavier's request. He sighed, "Okay."
At the sound of her success, Kitty began pulling him to the door. Lance heard the professor state that he would be with the rest of the students in the foyer. But before he could say a word in reply or gratitude, he was in the corridor being dragged behind Kitty.
The pair made it around the corner before Lance swayed, his balance shot. The girl in question pulled him close, slipping under his arm. "Here, lean on me," she said, her voice soft and her eyes on the carpet under their feet.
He swallowed, extremely grateful for her kindness. "Thanks, Kitty."
She peeked up at him as they made their way much more slowly down this new hall, in deference to his inability to walk in a straight line at a faster pace. "Like, no problem." If the situation were less harrowing, he was almost sure that she would have smiled.
They remained quiet as they made slow and steady progress towards the end of the second-floor corridor. At the pace they were going, it would probably take them until Wolverine and Storm were on their way back to get anywhere. The thought didn't bother him too much—mostly because he could tell his head wasn't going to get clearer anytime soon.
He felt the urge to say something. Anything. He hadn't really spoken to her since that awful board meeting with Matthews, even though they had seen each other during the Brotherhood's dumb stunts. He tried to pull his mind away from all that, and it landed on his current predicament. "I should have done something sooner," he blurted into the silence between them.
She immediately caught on. "You can't, like, blame yourself—"
He interrupted her. "I should have brought them here earlier." There were many reasons why he had waited, but one of the largest fears that ate away in his mind popped out of his mouth. "I wasn't sure Xavier would agree to help us."
Sadness flickered across her face. "Lance, our teams aren't on great terms, but we couldn't turn you away. No one else would help you—how could we do the same? And I…" From the corner of his eye, he saw her blush grow heavier. "I know you, Lance. You'd only come to us for help if things were really bad."
He wished he could reassure her, but his teammates' health would have made him a liar. Even so, he bit his tongue until they had made it through another corridor and were entering the lower levels of the mansion.
Then he admitted, "Fred was coughing blood," choosing to share the main reason behind his decision. Kitty didn't speak, but the arm around his waist tightened and her entire body tensed.
He was grateful that she didn't say anything: he didn't know what either of them could have said.
The pair stepped into a silver steel hallway, one of the many that made up the underground complex of the Xavier Institute. Kitty pulled him along a few feet more to the nearest doorway. Inside was a large room. Along the walls were rows of shelves and cabinets, and a few computers on a long table against the wall. To their left, there was another hallway in which six doors were set. He could see through the glass walls, noting that each room was stocked with monitors, wires, and a bed. It was like a miniature, underground hospital.
Blue, furry McCoy was bustling around in one of the rooms, turning down the bed and checking monitors. There were too many wires hooked up to them. Four of the other rooms were in various stages of preparation to receive a patient as well, medical equipment ready and waiting.
Great. They were going to try and shove him in a bed, too.
But he had to be up, had to help out. Maybe he could convince McCoy that he wasn't as bad as he looked, so he could move around to help out his teammates.
As if sensing his thoughts, Kitty tugged him into the room and McCoy turned to greet them. "Have any of the other patients arrived yet?" he asked pleasantly, some random medical instrument in his hands. Lance shifted uncomfortably—both due to his sense of responsibility, and because of his headache. The world had long since gone fuzzy around the edges.
"No, not yet," Kitty replied, holding Lance firmly to her side. "Maybe, but they have to, like, use the elevator and all."
Lance tried to subtly pull away from Kitty. Normally, he would be all too content to have her so close. But under the gaze of the former P.E.-and-Chemistry teacher, he felt as if McCoy could clearly see him struggling against dizziness. The trip down had been fine, but now that he wasn't moving it was all catching up to him.
McCoy rested his hands on the bed. "So, can you tell me how you're feeling, Mr. Alvers?"
"Me? I'm fine." He straightened, his arm almost slipping from Kitty's shoulder. She tightened her hold on his waist, nudging him toward the bed. "But Freddy—"
"I asked about you, Mr. Alvers," McCoy sighed. A hint of a smile slipped across his face. "What are your symptoms? What seems to be bothering you?"
"The condition my friends are in," he replied flippantly. Kitty managed to elbow his side. McCoy's expression was patient enough that Lance knew they would stand there until he said something about himself.
But he couldn't, not while all he could think about was his team, his family. Todd absolutely had to be with someone else—although a silent, enclosed room was exactly what Wanda needed. Fred could be fine in a room by himself, but Pietro would want to be with someone or his fast-moving-even-when-sick mind would drive him crazy.
He was just about to give in when he heard footsteps in the hall.
A distressed voice called out, "Hank! It's Fred. I need help." Lance tensed as he head Grey calling for the doctor. McCoy was immediately out the door.
Kitty wouldn't budge as Lance attempted to follow the doctor out of the room. "Lance, stay here," she demanded, nearly scowling at his obstinate refusal to do so. "Mr. McCoy will, like, be back after he settles him—them—in."
"I have to see him, too," he told her, struggling weakly. "All of them. Kitty, let go."
She raised an eyebrow. "Okay." She slipped away from him so easily he was sure she had phased. The ground instantly began to sway and roll underneath his feet. He stumbled and clutched at the bed for equilibrium, scowling at her. Fists planted firmly on her hips, she eyed him with a smug, yet concerned, gaze. "Just get in bed. I'm going to see if Jean and Mr. McCoy need any help."
Then she actually turned around and bounced out of the room.
He stared in disbelief at the doorway, waiting for her to reappear, but he received no such vision. Instead, he heard an exclamation of horror from down the hall, and his entire body tensed in response. He eyed the door—surely it wasn't that far? He had to see Fred, too: he was pretty sure that Kitty's "Oh my God!" had been in response to his largest friend's appearance.
Fred's enormous bulk, likely a byproduct of his mutation, had drastically diminished during that week. Although he was still over six and a half feet tall, the Blob's body was about one-third his usual size. His nightclothes were horribly baggy, making him appear even thinner. At the rate he shrunk, Lance had roughly calculated about two more days before he was (by standard terms) dangerously thin—and four before he was barely skin-and-bones. It was severely abnormal for someone to lose that much weight in only a week, no matter how little they ate or drank. Lance had begun to suspect that it was something much more serious than a normal illness only a few days after Fred had fallen sick.
He could only hope that Xavier would figure it out. And help Fred, the way Lance had not been able to.
Stumbling along slowly, he almost made it across the room before he was too dizzy to see straight. Lance practically threw himself in the direction of the doorway, clutching at the frame like it was a lifejacket and he was drowning. Through the glass panes, he could see McCoy standing at Fred's bedside, thermometer in hand, and Kitty perched on the edge of the bed. Lance watched as Kitty attached little suction-cup things to Fred's thinned face. There was bewildered tenderness in her eyes, and Lance felt a strong surge of affection for her compassion.
He was startled when Summers appeared in the hall, Wanda in his arms.
Lance registered with detached interest that her hair had grown more than he thought. When she got sick, it was cropped close to her head. Now it brushed the bottoms of her shoulder blades, which were visible due to the low back of her pajama top. Her fingers were threaded through the black locks, clutching her head. He couldn't see her ashen face, but he was sure that Wanda's lips were twisted into a grimace. The rest of her body was boneless.
Summers carried her into the room next door when McCoy pointed, and Lance leaned over to peer down the hall. His vision was narrowing, but he had to make sure that everyone was okay before he could allow himself to rest. Fighting dizziness, he staggered down the hall with one hand on the wall. Through the glass, he watched as Summers situated Wanda on the bed. She lay half-curled and unmoving, offering no resistance.
A sickening wave of pressure crashed through his head, and he clutched it with a yelp. A vague presence warned him to calm down, I'm helping you but he wasn't about to calm down when someone was in his head. He felt a burst of pain in his shoulder as it connected with something hard, and pressed his hands to his head in an attempt to block out the presence.
It told him that it was sorry, but you're not going to listen. You need to rest, too. I'll apologize when you wake up.
He caught a glimpse of red hair. Then he was surrounded by darkness.
A faint, steady beeping pulled him to the surface. His brain felt soggy, washed clean. The darkness was a brighter, but he couldn't see. Why was that? Oddly enough, he wasn't too bothered.
He could hear voices in the hall.
"…just don't know what this could be. I've never seen anything like it, Charles, but there's something familiar about their symptoms."
"Have you found anything yet?"
"Yes, actually. The blood work turned up some kind of contaminant."
"There's something in their blood?"
"Apparently. I'm heading to my lab with…"
The darkness tugged him back under.
Louder noise broke through the haze. A crash, the sound of metal on metal, then stern disapproval.
"…control, Logan. Our patients cannot handle—"
"I know that, Chuck." A sharp, angry tone. "How could this happen? Why didn't you sense it?"
"You know why." Heavy silence.
"I guarantee you, Charles, however they were poisoned, whoever did it will try to do the same to us. Or, heck, why not the whole country while we're at it? Get rid of every mutant."
"I'm well aware of that."
A short pause. "How's the Brotherhood doing?"
"They may recover, given time and proper treatment. Our main concerns are a…well, an 'antidote', as well as discovering how they…"
The voices faded away, and he fell back in exhaustion.
Sensation brought him back the next time. Someone was rubbing his—hand? Leg? He couldn't tell.
"…Power-8." A sigh. "I can't believe this is happening."
"Vhy is it affecting zem differently zan it did Evan?"
"It's a little different, but the root formula is similar enough for the computer to match half of it." A sympathetic murmur in reply. "When is Evan coming?"
"Ven somevone finds him." A pause. "Ve are trying, Kitty. Ze rest of ze team won't stop searching."
"Thanks, Kurt. I just…" A longer pause. "What if Mr. McCoy can't figure it out?"
"Kitty—"
"Kurt, just look at them! Fred is half-starved, Wanda and Todd can't even move, Pietro wheezes on every breath! And if… if Jean hadn't knocked Lance out, he'd still be running himself into the ground, trying t-to help…" A short gasp, a tiny splash of liquid on his face.
"Kitty." Sadness. "Kitty, don't cry—Hank said Lance vould be fine vith ze sedatives and rest. Kitty, shh, it's…"
Lance wanted to reassure her too. He wanted to make her stop crying. But he couldn't seem to move.
And he slipped away again before he could try harder.
He next woke to pain.
It was like someone had paralyzed him, poured on gasoline and lit a match. He couldn't move, could hardly breathe, his jaw locked though he tried to scream for help and he couldn't. He couldn't scream, couldn't open his eyes, every limb hurt so badly.
Muffled sounds outside, nearby, but focus was impossible, everything else hurt, it hurt, hurts hurts pain what's happening—
Lance! Stop using your powers! Can you hear me? Intrusion in his mind, female voice, too loud, more pain, can't keep it out, he needs unconscious. I'm sorry, but right now being awake will only hurt everyone.
Sensation in his head, then blessed darkness, oh thank…
This time, his eyes opened, too.
He had to shut them quickly because light was too bright. His limbs felt weak and breathing wasn't coming that easy, but the fire was gone. In its place only a bone-deep ache remained. There was an odd pressure over his lungs, but he could breathe fine so it didn't seem to be cause for concern.
Lance could hear soft beeping from somewhere to his left, but otherwise the world was silent and calm. He tried opening his eyes again, squinting against the light. His eyes focused first on the smooth silver ceiling, then on the white-painted walls, and finally rested on the very familiar head lying on his chest.
Kitty's hair was down for once, usual scrunchie absent. The brown locks curled slightly against her shoulders. He blinked at the sight of her petite body curled against his side, a blanket haphazardly pulled to her ribs. Her head and one hand rose and fell on his chest in time to his breath. Her face, tilted upward, showed him the dark bags under her eyes. He had a queasy feeling in his stomach at the thought that she had lost sleep because of him. He was thrilled to think that she might still care about him, but not at the expense of her own health.
He dragged his arm out from under her and cupped her shoulder with his palm. She was so deeply asleep that the movement did not make her twitch. He pulled the blanket back up around her, tugging it around her shoulders.
Lance vaguely registered movement in the hallway, but couldn't tear his eyes away from Kitty. Was she really that close to him? She felt real—he rubbed her shoulder gently through the thick fleece, checking. She felt real… He had to still be dreaming: she hated him, after all. Why would she be with him, like this, when they hadn't spoken to each other in months? It made no sense. He was asleep.
But no, he must have been awake, because he fought against heavy eyes. And lost.
The world came back to him in bits and pieces.
First, he could feel the cool air on his face. Then his fingers twitched, curling into stiff fabric. There was a low, steady beeping coming from one corner of the room and a rustling that sounded like paper on paper. He could breathe easily again. There was a band wrapped around his elbow, keeping it stiff and straight, and he could think clearly for the first time in so long.
Lance moved his head to the side, moaning slightly at the sensation. His neck felt so stiff—how long had he been out of it?
There was a startled gasp from somewhere next to him, and a Southern-accented voice laughed, "Oh, she's goin' to kill you."
Well, that made no sense. "Huh?" He cracked open his eyes, and they focused on a pale face framed by white and brown hair.
Rogue sat in a chair at his bedside with dark splotches under her eyes. But she greeted him with a tired grin. "Hold on a sec," she told him, reaching for a remote near his left hand. "Gotta tell Hank you're finally awake." The button she pressed made a short beep and began glowing.
"How long've I been out?" he rasped. His throat was incredibly dry.
Rogue turned to a table behind her. "Near a week. Everythin's been so busy, Ah haven't been able to keep track." She held up a cup of ice. "You have to suck on ice insteada drinking anything. Hank said it'd be better for yer throat." She flicked another switch, and his bed began to lift.
If it were anyone else, he would have been completely taken aback by her pleasantness. But Rogue had been one of the Brotherhood a long time ago. When she was in the house, the two of them had coexisted well enough. And although they fought X-men versus Brotherhood, the bonds forged by her time with them popped up every now and then. Rogue was loyal to a fault, though she thought they were idiots and on the wrong side. She understood to a point why they couldn't simply leave Magneto. The thing was, she didn't fully understand and had taken her available escape option.
He knew that her gesture of concern was genuine. "Thanks." He couldn't move one arm because of the IV— needles an instinctive quiver that he restrained, refusing to show that weakness—but with the other, took an offered sliver of ice and let it melt on his tongue. "So who's going to kill me?"
Something flickered across her face, but it was gone almost before he saw it. "Kitty. She's been sittin' with you the whole time. Then you woke up an' pulled a blanket ovah her, but didn't wake her. Now, aftah we finally convinced her to shower and get food, you wake up again!"
He blushed slightly at Rogue's teasing wink. "How did you know I did that? For all she knew, McCoy did it."
"Well, you just admitted it," Rogue laughed. "But Hank also saw you. He was passing by with a message for Callisto, and when he got back you'd already fallen back asleep."
Lance blushed deeper at his slip. "Oh. Wait," he realized. "Why's Callisto here?" He thought she'd never leave the tunnels. Rogue raised an eyebrow at the question, but didn't have the opportunity to reply.
"The same reason you're here, Mr. Alvers."
Blue, furry, and with a lab coat slung over his wide shoulders, McCoy entered the room with the presence and authority of a doctor. He walked up to the bedside, tapping the glowing button. Lance tried to sit up straighter. Hooked up to monitors with wires and tubes, he felt utterly useless.
McCoy gave him a reassuring smile, but it was as weary as Rogue's. "It appears that there is a contaminant in the public water systems. To humans, it has no effect—but to mutants, it is deadly. This toxin poisoned your teammates and yourself, as well as a literally underground subculture—"
"The Morlocks. That's why Callisto's here?" he asked Rogue, who nodded hesitantly. "Did they all come?" If they had, it was huge—the Morlocks never left their sewers.
"Yes. It is quite the tribe," McCoy added, his eyes sparkling. "We've given them the emergency rooms that are below ground, just down the hall. Most of them are more comfortable underground, although they have all ventured up into the mansion itself regularly. They were less affected by the poison than you and your teammates due to the nature of this particular toxin."
"And what is it?" His stomach twisted at the thought of his team's condition. He wanted to know everything he could about this poison.
"It is a modified version of a chemical that was used in the sports drink Power-8," McCoy explained. "Whoever put the poison in the water system made some changes, but I recognized the root formula. The new version of the compound causes a severe interference with brain activity in areas essential to control of mutant abilities, both physical manifestations and conscious use of power. Symptoms mimic a wide range of sicknesses, but the most common ones are aching muscles, changes in physical aspects of mutations, intense headaches—"
Lance interrupted him. "Okay, so obviously you found some cure since I'm awake and alive."
"It would be more accurate to say that the chemical simply passed out of your systems. Without taking more of it in, you recovered slowly but steadily. It took longer than I would have liked, and we had to help your bodies along the way to rid them of the compound. But you are well on the mend."
He wasn't sure how he felt about the lack of an actual cure, but it was far more important that they didn't get poisoned again. And… "How did we get poisoned worse than the Morlocks?" They lived in the sewers. The Brotherhood house was barely any better, but it still didn't make sense. "And why weren't you poisoned at all?"
McCoy's expression was gentle. "Our own water systems were unaffected, as we have a direct line to a water source and our own filtration system. But the public water lines running through your grid, and the ones near the Morlock's dwelling, were laced with the toxin. The toxin is dangerous if a mutant comes in contact with it, but the effects wear off much more quickly with mere skin contact. That is what happened to the Morlocks: they don't drink the water in their surroundings. But if ingested, the poison infiltrates your body's fat cells as it breaks down your immune system. When your bodies us those cells for energy you keep receiving doses of the poison."
A kind of numbness enveloped him. "So we kept getting worse when we drank the water."
"I'm afraid so," McCoy's eyes were glazed with sympathy.
Lance's eyes fell to the blankets that covered his legs. A bitter taste rose in his mouth. He'd been taking care of his team for nearly a week, trying to keep up with their needs while job hunting, bringing them untouched food and glasses of water… and the liquid was all they had been able to keep down. But it had been poisoning them the whole time. It was his fault they almost died.
A soft hand grabbed his wrist, and he realized that he had been silent for too long. He glanced at Rogue, who leaned forward in her chair. "You didn't know," she told him softly. "None'a us did."
He felt worn and weary as he stared back at her. "But they're my responsibility," he reminded her, and she looked down. "I have to take care of them." He knew she was remembering her own time in the Brotherhood house, and that she knew exactly what their situation was now.
"Thought Pietro was in charge," she said, offering a weak smile.
"Please. Pie? He can't keep track of all the gritty details." Lance had been given all the responsibility when Mystique first pulled them together, and kept on it once she and Magneto were gone. Even when Pietro's father sent him back, Lance still kept track of things like money and food.
Pietro couldn't really handle things like that. He lived in super-speed because of his mutation. He was trapped in it. That made it difficult for him to accomplish monotonous tasks, which the team allowed him leeway for. So Pietro hadn't gone to Principal Kelly to try and get his team back in school. Pietro hadn't gone out and gotten three jobs to keep them in the house. Pietro wasn't the one the team turned to when something happened, good or bad.
Although he teased them with his "superiority" and irritated them with his arrogance, he obeyed Lance without question when caught off-guard by a command. And Pietro would often follow Lance's lead by choice. Fred and Todd tended to follow Lance as well, probably out of habit and possibly because they just thought of him as the leader. Wanda simply didn't like being bossed around; Lance treated her like an equal. She told him that he was a natural leader but he thought she just didn't like obeying Pietro.
Rogue got him to smile as he thought about his family, but his mind quickly skipped back to the situation they were in. He turned back to McCoy, question dying on his lips when the doctor held up a clipboard. "Mr. Maximoff's vital signs have returned to what he claims are normal. All his complaints—aching muscles, headache, and difficulty breathing—have cleared up as well, but he is severely malnourished as a result of his powers malfunctioning. They used up all available energy stores and he was unable to keep up a healthy diet to compensate for that. Miss Maximoff's migraine has ceased, and she complained of sore joints, which are also no longer an issue. Mr. Tolanski's pain, situated in his legs, mouth and lungs, has also abated. Mr. Dukes has yet to regain any of his lost weight. However, he has not lost any more and is conscious. Kitty informed us that the reason you finally decided to bring them here was because Mr. Dukes began coughing up blood."
"Yeah," Lance confirmed, recalling the memory with vivid clarity. A shiver ran down his spine, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Rogue holding a hand to her mouth.
"All of you are still weak. The toxin practically destroyed your immune systems, and you'll all need some time to build your resistance to natural germs and viruses. Even the common cold would be fatally dangerous to you at this point in your recovery. Professor Xavier and I would like to politely request that you stay here until you are healthier." McCoy quickly added, "You don't need to answer me now. Think about it and talk to your teammates."
Lance nodded, already knowing what they would think—and already knowing his decision. They wouldn't like it. But he had no choice. Their health and safety were both his responsibility, and if that meant the X-men… He'd rather push for their continued recovery in the presence of those medically capable, instead of relying on he who had gotten them poisoned.
McCoy lifted his clipboard again. "You, Mr. Alvers, have been in and out of consciousness for approximately eight days. I'm afraid Miss Gray took it upon herself to help you into unconsciousness when you first arrived, but I must tell you that if she hadn't done so, your condition would be much worse. We're not certain why, but the toxin caused you to react much more strongly. It may have been your own natural body chemistry, but I believe that taking care of your teammates and neglecting your own health had an adverse effect. The toxin took much deeper root into your system. Before I thought to give you medicines to counteract the effects of the poison while it was being flushed out of your system, it—"
Rogue suddenly jumped to her feet, startling both men. "Ah'm gonna find Kitty and tell 'er you're up."
Lance frowned at her stone expression. "Rogue?" She didn't look at him, her eyes fixed on the doorway with an almost furious glare. She didn't let him ask again.
He didn't even blink before she'd thrown herself out the door. Confused, he turned a glare on McCoy. "What happened?" he demanded.
The doctor sighed. "The chemical affected your brain and turned your own immune system on your body and began destroying cells systematically. Your circulatory system was the most affected—you nearly died due to a lack of red blood cells. You successfully made it through a blood transfusion, and other drugs helped deal with the symptoms. The muscle cells in your legs and arms were also heavily impacted. I want to run a few tests now that you're awake, to make sure that my calculations on the damage were accurate."
His chest felt tight at the information. His thoughts went to his team… and to Kitty. Lance swallowed hard. "You said it affected my brain. How?"
"The compound targeted your mutant powers. The effect of your abilities tripled, but due to the extreme pain you were in they also activated. There was no permanent damage to anyone or anything, except to you. Miss Gray had to psychically knock you unconscious once again, but Professor Xavier kept you out for three days to let your mind handle the strain—if you had been awake, all the natural and unnatural chemicals would have impaired your recovery. Physically, you bear the marks of continuous, lengthy malnourishment, as well as some…much older injuries."
Lance stiffened. How would McCoy—he glanced down at himself. Then he cursed out loud.
He hadn't even noticed that he was shirtless.
"I apologize for the lack of privacy inherent in removing the majority of your clothes," McCoy said in a quiet voice, "but it was necessary in order to run tests and treat you successfully."
It was a lost cause—the sheets had been at his waist while Rogue was there. His sun-deprived skin, paler than usual, highlighted old scars that usually went unseen. A long, curved ridge around his side; a cluster of circular burns on his left ribs; what looked like claw marks over his chest. But it was the raised scar on his back that was the larger problem, meandering down the arch of his spine and the hollow between his shoulder blades. Long since healed, long since habit to conceal. "Who else saw me?"
He could tell immediately from McCoy's expression that he wouldn't like the answer. "Professor Xavier was present when Logan and I removed your clothes. Ororo and the rest of the senior team have been in the medical area of the Institute over the past week to help care for all of our patients." Lance let his eyes drop to the far corner of the room. McCoy forged on despite the obvious displeasure that Lance couldn't conceal and didn't want to hide. "I am sorry that we couldn't put you in a gown, but the advanced sensors needed bare skin to work properly. And once we found that you had been poisoned, it was imperative to closely monitor your vitals and forgo any modesty for the sake of preserving your life. If it's any consolation, your teammates also had to be exposed the same way. Except Miss Maximoff—she's not quite as bare. But that's self-explanatory."
Lance understood, but he was still irritated that he'd been shirtless here. An object of speculation, subject to gawking and unwelcome curiosity. He sighed—there was nothing he could do about it now. Instead, he focused on McCoy's babble. "Bet she's not happy about that."
"Oh, no, she wasn't," he agreed, pressing a button on some machine. "I was quite frightened before I told her that Ororo had undressed her. Then I was worried for Ororo, until she spoke to Wanda and calmed her." He began to ramble on about something or another, but Lance tuned it out.
What was the doctor playing at? Lance had expected questions and concerns, or reassurances that the deep, dark secrets that had been exposed would be treated with respect if they were confided. He had not expected the blasé, almost indifferent attitude that McCoy exhibited. It was an interesting technique to draw out trust. Lance was now supposed to instigate the questioning, perhaps by asking what Xavier was planning to do, or maybe ask McCoy why he wasn't saying anything about them.
But he wasn't about to fall for that. He had dealt on his own for years, and he didn't need any well-meaning adult to express pity and concern now. Eight days unconsciousness sure as heck wasn't a great start to a trusting relationship. Then again, McCoy hadn't killed him while he was too weak to fight, so they had established that much trust already.
Instead of saying anything, he allowed McCoy to prod and poke at him with gentle instructions and scribbled notes in a folder. Great, now Xavier had medical files on all of them—he hadn't thought about that consequence. Whatever, they were alive. That was what mattered.
Flexing his arms and stretching his legs against the resistance McCoy provided, Lance patiently waited out the tests with silence. He refused to return to their previous topic of conversation. To his surprise, McCoy let the matter lie, too. The closest he got to mentioning it was to recommend that in a day or so, when Lance could sit up without assistance, then he should start with light exercise to counter the damage done during his illness.
He was grateful for the tact, for the apparent understanding exhibited by the blue furry doctor. His brief thanks, and McCoy's acceptance, were interrupted by a cry from the door. "Lance!"
He looked up. She had appeared against the doorway, grasping it with her hand as if she had slid to a stop while running only by holding on to the nearest solid surface. Not an ounce of makeup was touching her face and her hair was still loose around her shoulders. Her shirt was askew, her black sweatpants sagging due to old elastic around her thin waist, and Lance thought she was the most beautiful she'd ever been. Kitty.
The brunette was a blur as she flew through the air—phasing through the bed to throw her arms around him.
And right through him.
He felt his heart nearly stop in shock as she went right through him. Lance didn't dare move, too startled by the surprising arrival of the girl he had long lo—liked. She quickly reappeared beside his bed, phasing through the wall with ease. A pink blush brightened her cheeks, adding color to her drawn skin. She was breathing heavily, reinforcing his assumption that she had run.
"Kitty."
"Lance!" Tears sparkled at the corners of her eyes. His stomach twisted at the sight. He hated seeing her cry.
She threw her arms around him—this time, not phasing through. And he managed to lift both of his own arms and wrap them around her.
McCoy left soon after Kitty arrived. He was grateful for the doctor's tact, grateful for the opportunity to hold Kitty, but he pulled away quickly despite his desire to hold her as close as possible.
He wasn't stupid. He could see that she still cared about him, that they were doing that familiar dance again. The problem was that he couldn't quite tell how much of it was because of their attraction to one another, and how much of it was due to the fact that he came very close to dying. Maybe it sparked the old feelings of friendship and compassion and she fell back on that familiar way of relating to him. Looking into her eyes again, he shoved all the questions aside. Frankly he just needed to know that she cared at the moment. That was enough for him.
He brushed her hair back behind her ears, a smile stretching his cracked and dry lips. "This is new."
"What, surprise phasing?" She rolled her eyes, the blush darkening.
"Your hair," he replied. She blinked in surprise. "I've never seen it down before."
Kitty lifted one hip, taking a seat on the bed. "Oh. It broke and I just, like, couldn't be bothered to find more scrunchies. I wanted to stay here." Her hand slipped into his, gently, and her eyes remained on his. "We were worried about you."
He let himself relax slightly, squeezing her hand just enough to let the pressure speak for itself. "Effort appreciated." The stress had left its marks, but he knew her: she would have been running around trying to help, and that meant she would have been watching out for his teammates.
She smiled. "They weren't too much hassle," she said, confirming that they were on the same wavelength.
"Good. I was—"
"It was fairly obvious just how concerned you were," she interrupted, her expression turning more serious. "You were in such bad shape because of it."
He simply raised his eyebrow. "You know why." She nodded, but unhappily. He lifted his free hand and tucked it under her chin. "If I knew how bad I was making it for myself, we would have been here sooner." He never wanted to worry her, or any of them, that much.
She nodded, accepting the unspoken words. They sat in silence for a moment, and he let his hand drift back to his lap. But the other one, the one she held, became captured in both of hers. He didn't pay too much attention to it until her eyes darted to his chest, and then to the hand between her own. His shoulders stiffened slightly. Then he consciously relaxed the muscles, trying to push the tension away.
"I don't want to push you, Lance. But…how?"
Her fingers delicately traced the edges of his thumb. His eyes were glued to her face as she looked down at it. When she glanced up, her eyes full to the brim with concern and curiosity, he couldn't look away.
These marks were the harsh evidence of life in unhappy foster homes, a couple of years on the streets, and the reality of fighting with mutant powers. And while he had never actively tried to hide his life from before the Brotherhood, neither had he ever really talked about his past with Kitty.
He knew about hers. The high expectations from image-obsessed parents who cared too much to let her fail to live up to her potential, her difficulty with having a sharp brain and girl-next-door looks when female peers became jealous, the bullying and the crippling shyness and her trouble trusting people. That he'd earned another chance after their first encounter in Northbrook was nearly a miracle. That she was here with him right now, another.
She trusted him with a lot. He trusted her, too. And yet…he didn't know what her reaction would be. He didn't want to bring this up to her, didn't want her to worry about him the way that he knew she would if she found out. He didn't need her pity.
He pressed his lips together tightly, ready to snap at her to back off—but those words never escaped his lips.
Instead, he let one shoulder lift and settle. "You know I was in foster homes," he said, struggling to find the right words. "Spent a couple years on the streets." He was unable to cross his arms because she held his hand. "Accidents, payback, and sometimes I just…got in the way."
Without opening her mouth, as if knowing the sound of her voice would startle him, she pressed her fingers along his side. "Fight over food. I didn't see the knife in time." She touched his chest. "Accident when I was on the run." The fingers hesitated over the numerous circular marks. "Foster home. Cigarettes. 'S why I ran away and ended up on the street."
Her eyes were too wide. It was a problem. It made him too honest. But… whatever he was afraid of when he didn't want to tell her, it was gone as he watched the tense emotions drain from her eyes and be replaced with only that sweet compassion that was so Kitty. She didn't freak out, or throw her arms around him, but simply accepted this information about him with shocking calm.
So he grasped her fingers and added, "The one on my back was at the same home." That, she accepted with a simple nod, as if confirming that when—not if—she saw that one day, she would remember what he told her.
She was such a surprise sometimes. Including the moment when her final address on the matter was to look him in the eye and say, "You shouldn't keep it all secret from your friends. They care about you." And when he opened his mouth to argue, she pressed her fingers gently to his lips and added, "But it's your decision."
He nodded and seized on the welcome distraction. "How are they, anyway? McCoy gave me a medical update, but have you seen them since we've been here?"
"Oh, yes. We put the boys in a room together after they all requested it. Wanda stayed by herself, though. I think…" she hesitated. "I think they didn't want Todd to be alone." Her voice dropped slightly.
Lance nodded and replied in the same low tone. "Yeah, he doesn't do so well by himself when he's not feeling well. I would have said so when I came in, but Grey knocked me out."
Kitty nodded like a puzzle had fallen together. "I think that made them realize how bad off you were before the Professor even told them."
They knew he would have taken care of them all if he had been okay to do so. They knew him just as well as he knew them. He sighed, but let it go. "So are they all still down here, too?"
"Yeah, they're bedridden for at least one more day, too weak to get up." She eyed him with a knowing eye, and he knew that she had caught on to the fact that he actually needed to lean back against the raised bed. Hugging her had been about all he could handle. Staying upright drained his energy faster.
"Wish I could visit," he murmured.
She smacked his arm. "Don't even try. I'll have Jean knock you out again."
He caught her hand and smiled. "I'll be good. Too much effort to sit up, I can't even think about getting out of this bed yet. Besides, I'm all hooked up to things that I can't remove." Not without extreme discomfort and embarrassment.
Kitty bit her lip. "Are you tired? You probably need more rest."
"I'm good for now. Just talk to me. What else has been going on while I've been out?"
She smiled, hand firmly enclosed in his.
When he was able to sit upright without assistance, Lance engaged in a battle of wills with McCoy and Kitty to be allowed to visit the rest of his teammates. It took some convincing, and the negotiation of a wheelchair, Assistant Kitty, and a time limit, but eventually the furry doctor allowed it.
Kitty had a folded robe in her arms when she came back into the room, McCoy passing her on his way out while muttering about checking the health of some of the Morlocks. Lance ignored him, recognizing the spark of relief in McCoy's eyes as they haggled over visiting conditions. The doctor seemed to take the argument as a sign of recovered health.
Lance had a hard grip on the edge of the bed beside his thighs as he let his feet touch linoleum for the first time in over a week. He'd been allowed to make use of the bathroom—small mercies—but hated the feel of thick rubber-soled socks on his feet and kicked those off soon after first wearing them. Kitty rolled her eyes as he tried to pretend the cold floor wasn't getting to him. She dropped the robe next to him on the bed and held out the socks impatiently.
"I could bring down my slippers for you if you want," she threatened.
He winced at the memory of those fuzzy monstrosities. "I'll be good." She waved the socks at him in answer and he took them. Knowing her, she really would bring those hideous slippers down in retaliation. In deference to his illness, he bent his knees and brought his feet up instead of leaning down.
Kitty gestured for him to turn so she could slip the robe up his arms. Her movements were slower than he expected but upon glancing over his shoulder, he saw only her usual smile. Kitty nudged him toward the waiting wheelchair once he had tugged the front edges closed. Despite having agreed to it, Lance still sat grudgingly.
Flipping her reinstated ponytail over her shoulder, Kitty shoved the over-long sleeves of her sweater up to get a better grip on the handles. "Now be good," she said, leaning from behind over his head. Her hair tickled the side of his cheek. "Or I'll, like, get Logan to push you around next time."
Lance shuddered, exaggerating the movement to get her to laugh. "Anyone but Wolverine! I'd even deal with Summers, though he'd let me go at the top of a ramp."
"Oh, he wouldn't do that," Kitty protested, but her laughter undermined the assurance.
The trip was very short: she pushed him out of his room, turned to the left, and went to the next room over. He could see through the glass walls of the inner hallway. Wanda was to the right, the door to her room closed. She appeared to be dozing, though the lights were still on.
But to the left, the door was open and Lance saw right away that the other guys were more mobile. Fred leaned against the wall in an oversized but wheel-less chair beside Pietro and Todd's beds; the amphibious mutant was curled up in the middle of his bed, while their leader-by-title sat with his legs dangling over the side of the bed. Pietro gripped the edge and seemed seconds away from running out of the room. Kitty cut any escape attempt with their arrival and a sharp, "Pietro! Don't you dare get out of that bed!" He knew without looking that her grumpy tone was softened by an exasperated smile.
The Brotherhood boys' greeting lacked a single teasing remark about Lance's invalid status, and Pietro slipped back under the sheets of his bed with the air of one for whom any action was his own idea. Lance squeezed Kitty's hand after she rolled him into place between the two beds, facing all of them.
She squeezed back and let go. "I'm just going to check on Wanda, guys. Don't let Lance try to prove he's all better, he's still banned from walking until tomorrow!" He rolled his eyes as she patted his shoulder.
"I'll be good, I promise."
"When I see it, I'll believe it."
He rolled his eyes as she left the room and Pietro could not resist the dig. He sat up and pointed a finger straight at Lance's face. "You two are doing that sick arguing-to-flirt thing again."
Fred grinned widely, offsetting the dark shadows under his eyes. "They're being lovey-dovey. It's like romance novel bullshit."
"What makes you think this is a good idea the fourth time around?" Todd added.
Lance rolled his eyes even harder and shot a pointed glare around the room. "It's not like that, guys."
"Oh really?" Pietro leaned forward, the pointed finger coming closer to Lance's face.
"Yes, really." He squirmed in his seat, tightening his hands around the wheels. "We're friends, guys."
"The tears did not look like 'friends.'" Pietro squinted.
Todd crossed his arms over his chest. "Neither did her missing ponytail or the way she kept checking up on us. Like she was you."
Fred nodded slowly. "The whole near-death experience—"
"Was scary for all of us," Lance cut in. He could see the shadows playing on all of their faces and knew it had shown on his. "It was tough. But that's not why we're talking to each other again. We haven't even talked about the school board thing yet, or a lot of other shit. We're not jumping back into a relationship."
"You two can't do just friends," Pietro accused, leaning even further forward.
Lance finally reached out and slapped the pointed finger away. "Yes. We can." The guys laughed and he let his head fall back. "Seriously, why did I worry about any of you idiots? You'd have all come back just to make me miserable," he said to the ceiling.
He lifted his head when he felt a jolt through his knee. Todd retracted his leg into the cocoon he had formed. "Count on it, yo." The youngest Brotherhood boy shrugged. "But you know you did the right thing, here."
Lance shifted his shoulders against the cloth back of the chair and Fred snorted. "We're staying here, aren't we?" Lance blinked at him. "At least until our—our—what did McCoy say?"
Pietro covered for Fred's knowledge gap. "Until our immune systems can handle the big, bad world outside Xavier's little mansion." Their leader-by-name met the eyes of the leader-by-nature. The two shared a moment of understanding: the displeasure with the choice, the responsibility and lack of resources to do otherwise, and the fact that they were pretty sure that Xavier would not let them choose if he felt that his advice must be taken. "We'll be fine. Won't let the X-Geeks suck out our brains or anything."
"You already talked about this?" Lance asked, just to double-check. Fred and Todd nodded, but Pietro's jaw twitched. Lance was about to push the question when Todd began preening despite his blanket cocoon.
Guessing instantly what that was about, Lance turned his head to see Wanda letting Kitty push her across the hall in her own wheelchair. They entered the room to a chorus of greetings, and Lance found himself relaxing when Wanda returned their welcome with a weary smile. He could tell she wouldn't want to visit long, but it was nice that she had made the effort anyway.
Instead of entering the room fully, Kitty paused at the door and nodded to the room at large. "I'll be back in a few minutes. If you, like, want me back earlier, just hit the call button!" With a brief moment of smiling, blushing eye contact with Lance, she headed back off down the hall.
Lance followed her with his eyes until the glass windows couldn't show him any more of her departure, and turned his gaze back to the room to realize that Wanda was watching him with a raised eyebrow. "What?"
She shook her head, the long locks brushing over her shoulders. "You two are obvious. It makes me nauseous."
The boys hooted and hollered at her snarky cut. Lance let it roll away, giving up fighting them any more on their assumptions. "I assume you know about Xavier's offer."
Wanda lifted one shoulder and leaned on her elbow. "It's probably for the best. Our house needs fumigating before we can live in it again. Even if it was a chemical, we were all pretty legitimately sick."
Lance grimaced as he recalled his last memory about the state of the house. While the rest of them were down for the count and he was still heading out to work, they had been unaware of just how bad the buildup had gotten. "Might be a good idea for us to be at our full strength when we go back," he agreed. "There's a lot to take care of."
Wanda cut off Pietro just as the other boy was sucking in air—probably to say something about his leadership. "What about your jobs?"
Thankful for his murky-headed foresight, Lance delivered a tiny bit of good news. "They could tell I wasn't a hundred percent so before I came to Xavier's I asked for a week off. I went a couple days over, but I'm banking on them appreciating that I took the little extra time instead of showing up sick."
A faint crease line in Wanda's forehead was probably mirrored on his, though: there was always a chance that he'd lose the jobs, especially since it was common knowledge that he was a mutant. Since they'd hired him in the first place, it was less likely that they were anti-mutant. But being unreachable underneath Xavier's mansion might have put him on the bad list. He'd take care of that as soon as possible. Lance was almost positive that McCoy's office had a phone. Kitty might let him use it without too many questions, though he could probably just tell her anyway.
A pillow hit him square in the face. He spluttered into the cloth, tossing it aside to the sounds of laughter. Across from him, Fred crossed his arms carefully. "No seriousness right now." Todd nearly fell off his bed into Wanda's lap and she rolled herself backwards a few inches. Pietro flung his arms out and demanded that they all pay him their respect as leader.
Lance laughed.
"I want the popcorn!"
"Peanut butter cups, anyone?"
"How can y' eat dis junk?"
"Don't throw anything!"
"Ah'm not a health nut, Swamp Rat."
"Could I try those?"
"They're meant to be thrown!"
The movie was paused on the main titles. A wide space on the floor was cleared and piled with pillows and blankets of all sizes and colors. Around the edges of the room were chairs and couches, some dragged in from other rooms. Although large, the room was relatively packed with people. Rogue and Gambit shared a loveseat with their bodies angled towards each other, Nightcrawler perching on the arm-back behind Rogue and tossing a bag of candy to Spike, around whom several of the youngest Morlocks clustered. Bobby, Jubilee, and Amara had taken over another couch, while Todd, Rahne, Ray, and Sam squabbled laughingly over a popcorn bowl. Pietro and Fred had taken seats on the far side of the room from Jamie, Kitty, and Roberto, but as had become obvious, the presence of Morlocks clustered near each served as an unexpected cushion to years of well-developed competition and tension.
Lance leaned against the doorframe. He might not have known any of the Morlocks by name, but it was clear that everyone in this room was young. He debated entering the din as someone flicked the play button and the lights dimmed, but slipped away without entering instead.
He meandered down the hall, taking it slow for his slightly-shaky legs. He had regained a lot of his strength, but to his great pleasure two of his bosses had let him off for another full week to recover when he had called. The third had let him go, unhappy that he'd been out of contact without notice, but Lance let it rest without too much argument.
Being a busboy in some fancy restaurant wasn't his favorite thing in the world, though it paid okay. Taking graveyard shifts at a far-out gas station was not much more intellectually stimulating, but the lucky position at a mechanic's was one he enjoyed. That boss was by far the most understanding.
Right now, though, he didn't feel much like sitting around in a room with a bunch of other kids, even if many were his own age. Even though Kitty was there, and usually he'd do anything to spend time with her—but he found himself making his way toward the kitchen anyway.
Xavier was pretty cool about the Morlocks, he had to admit. The dude would have been eaten out of house and home if he didn't have a ton of money, and Lance was well aware of how much it took just to feed himself and his four teammates.
Of course, being so cool about taking in a tribe of mutants with physical mutations was probably more of a double-edged sword on their end: he was pretty sure that some of them might be seduced to Xavier's team because of this… but found that he didn't really care all that much.
Not like he'd ever cared about that war between Xavier, Magneto and Mystique anyway. He was just tired of it all. He cared about his teammates as a family, but the longer these stupid fights kept coming the more he wished he'd had a choice other than Mystique that afternoon back in Northbrook.
Lance stepped into the kitchen and almost went right back out. It was busy like the TV room, except this room was where all the responsible adults had congregated. The adult Morlocks sat around the table with Callisto, Storm, Grey and Xavier. Wolverine leaned against the back wall, with Caliban standing like a sentry at the far door. Waiting for the microwave to finish heating a mug, Summers was the first to look at him.
Leaning against the door frame, Lance ignored the eyes he could feel on the side of his face. He had managed to walk in a relatively straight line but knew he'd look wobbly when standing framed by something stationary. Exchanging a courteous nod with Caliban, he felt his stomach twist when the unheard conversation faded upon his entrance. His stomach flipped when more eyes fell on him.
To his surprise, Callisto shoved her chair back with a screech against the floor. A line of tension in his shoulders faded at her stoic face flickering into a quiet recognition. "Lance. Good to see you walking again."
He steadied himself against the frame with one hand as she pulled him into a brief, back-slapping hug. Nothing could have prevented his lips from curving into a similarly relieved smile at her greeting. "Strange to see you in daylight," he said. The sun broke through the windows at an angle, setting her deprived skin in an odd glow. Most of the Morlocks had the look of people who were not often under a direct beam.
She laughed, a short and brutal sound. It was accompanied with a teasing jab at his stomach, which he blocked easily. She backed away, crossing her arms and eyeing him with satisfaction. "I'm not the only one looking odd in this place." She turned back to the table with a polite smile. "Not that we don't appreciate the hospitality, of course."
Lance followed her gaze and met Xavier's. The balding man rested his hands in his lap, serene and sure as ever. "As much as we appreciate your company," he replied. "It is heartening to see so many new faces in recovering health. I just hope that our efforts to seek out others in need won't turn up any who could have used our help much earlier." At that, Xavier's eyebrows tightened and his lips turned down.
The genuine sorrow on his face made Lance uncomfortable—as much as the realization that other mutants in the city would have suffered the same as the Brotherhood and the Morlocks. Most of them were grouped up: Bayville wasn't that large a town. But just because of most of them were allied didn't mean that there weren't kids whose powers had just surfaced, or loners who did not interact with any other mutants.
Lance turned to the fridge to avoid thinking about the topic. He wanted food. That would take his mind off of the matters the people circling the kitchen table were focused on. Now he knew what the conversation was about, and he was not eager to take up a role in it. Let the do-gooders and freaks figure it out. He and his family were barely scraping enough for food, let alone spare for someone sick from the local water sources.
There wasn't anything they could do—they'd been forced to come to Xavier. And that rankled like nothing else.
He grabbed a box of juice and closed the door. Waiting on the other side was a glass. In Summers' hand. Looking at him over the glass, it seemed that he was also…avoiding joining in the discussion.
Unusual for the boy scout not to be involved in matters like a proper, respectable adult. Not that he was much of an adult—Summers was his age, after all.
For a long minute, they stared at one another. Lance was tempted to push the tentative boundaries of peaceful coexistence for a brief moment. It would feel good to shove away Summers' attempts at being less of a jerk. But only for a moment. After that satisfaction, he would turn around and be on the receiving end of an entire mansion of animosity. Besides, he was too tired for this, too weak. Didn't want to make a fool of himself in front of one of the few people who had any kind of respect for him. Callisto had a thing about respect.
So he took the glass. Eyed Summers a moment longer, then grunted a soft, "Thanks."
Summers' reply was equally low. "Come outside with me for a moment."
It wasn't a question, a statement, or a demand. Just a simple request phrased firmly enough to make it clear that boy scout wasn't going to like hearing 'no,' but would accept it.
Lance shrugged and poured the juice into the glass. Replacing it, he gestured for Summers to lead the way.
He was vaguely aware that Wolverine was eyeing the two of them as they went through the door closest to the outside, but he refused to return his gaze. His concentration was on the stiff-backed mutant leading him. He didn't know what Summers wanted from him, but if it had anything to do with the past week he'd cheerfully punch him in the face.
Summers took a couple steps toward the grass when the door closed behind Lance. He tried not to grip the glass in his hand too tightly when Summers turned around and crossed his arms.
The red sunglasses were completely opaque, but Lance had always been good at telling when someone was staring at him. He met that gaze as squarely as he could and tilted his chin up in challenge. "Why'd you drag me out here, Summers? Didn't want to ruin that pretty tile floor?" Okay, maybe that whole non-antagonistic attitude thing could do with a bit more work.
Summers huffed out a breath that logically accompanied rolled eyes. "Can we talk without the attitude?" He added hastily, "On both our ends?"
This looked like it was going to be an attempt at mature. Reminding himself futilely of the residency agreement he and Xavier had come to, Lance grit his teeth against a smart-ass retort. "Kind of habit by now, but sure. Let's try that."
He was taken aback when Summers dropped his crossed arms and one hand rose to the back of his head. "Yeah. Habit." He shook his head. "Look, Alvers, you and your team—you're here until you're better. I just want us all to try and get along."
The other guys were in the TV room right now, weren't they? Wanda might have been in the library, but she was a bit antisocial. At dinner, she mingled half-heartedly but peacefully with the others. They were trying to get along. Summers dragging him out here…this was about Lance. Lance not belonging, Lance being difficult, Lance not falling in line.
He opened his mouth to reply—probably angrily, truce be damned—but Summers seemed beat him to it. "You're a natural leader." He almost dropped his juice glass in shock. That almost sounded like a compliment. "And I'm my team's leader. The Morlocks are neutral, but everyone else—the younger ones, at least—are still taking their cues from the two of us. If we can't get along, then that's just going to make the foreseeable future more difficult than it has to be."
Damnit. He was right. Lance's eyes fell to the grass just behind Summer's feet.
His family was pretty much trapped here, as comfortable as they seemed to be the past few days. But he couldn't deny that he was the most standoffish of the Brotherhood—Wanda included. He tried not to be rude, or angry, but the sensation of being stuck here was gnawing at him already. Being around Kitty was no help because they were still navigating murky waters and figuring out who they were to each other, no matter what he told the guys. The X-team always made him uncomfortable. And Summers…
Lance lifted his gaze. "I'm not trying to make trouble here. The only thing I care about right now is the safety of my team. That means dealing with where we are, and the people who are here. So I get what you're saying. But I don't know what we can do about the fact that we just don't get along."
"As teams, or as people?"
Snorting, he said, "We'd be enemies without mutations and you know it."
Summers lifted one shoulder. "Seems like more of a rivalry to me. I mean, it never made sense to me why we were always fighting when we're all mutants. Why we couldn't figure out where we weren't communicating and fix those gaps. I always thought it had something to do with the teams. And our ideals."
Surprise after surprise. Lance found himself interested in this conversation—who knew there was more thinking going on in Cyclops' head than what the professor put in there? "Ideals? Maybe you're always running around using your powers for one of your professor's reasons, but don't assume you know everything about me because you know who used to foot the bills."
He could see the curiosity on Summers' face. "And they're out of the picture now." Lance's shoulders tensed. "You said that Magneto hasn't been around for months when you got here. And we know Mystique's—well, Kurt told us. So if they're gone, what keeps the Brotherhood together?"
The ground wanted to roll under his feet. But Lance pushed the anger down instead of letting it run rampant, location a very present concern. And Summers wasn't looking at him with that sneer right now, wasn't asking intrusively. It was just a question. It was uncomfortable, but…they were getting somewhere. "They're family," he finally answered, well aware of the gruffness in his voice, the wariness in the set of his shoulders.
Summers just nodded. This was a new and not as irritating version of the X-man that Lance hadn't seen before. Seemed near-death experiences were good for all sorts of things, including second chances with enemies—pardon, rivals.
Re-crossing his arms, Summers said, "I never had that before I came here." Lance raised an eyebrow at the seemingly random statement. "You're not the only one who was in foster care."
That was a shocker. Summers seemed like the type with rich, indulgent parents. Preppy and sure of his status and unaware of financial concerns. Lance wanted to assume that he was lying. Then he gave himself a reality check. What did he know about much of the X-team, anyway? He knew Kitty's past, but that was it. They'd never talked about it—they were always exchanging blows or squabbling.
He broke the silence when the revelation had sunk in. "So hypothetically, if it was only you and the X-kiddies…?" His lips twitched up as he remembered that it had already happened, when the world learned about mutants.
"They're family," Summers shrugged.
"Huh." Lance glanced down at his hands, enclosed in their familiar, comforting gloves again and cupping an un-drunk glass of juice.
In a strange way, it made sense that he and Summers had this in common. Making a family of your own made you invested in people in ways that others who had not experienced it found difficult to understand. Most people probably wouldn't understand why Lance hadn't struck out on his own, why he hung around working three jobs to keep living with a bunch of troubled slobs in a run-down house. And maybe, it made sense that Summers would be the perfect little X-man and so content to follow Xavier's lead. If this was the place he'd found that accepted him, he wouldn't want to give it up either.
A bird chirped overhead. He almost laughed at the sound breaking the silence, and Summers' relaxed shoulders somehow made Lance feel more comfortable. He didn't trust the guy, but a conversation that did not include yelling at one another made a weird kind of sense in his head.
"So do you think we can get along, at least for the rest of the time you're all going to be here?" Summers finally asked.
Lance slid one hand into his pocket and took a sip, considering the X-team leader. He swallowed. "I'll try not to knock your feet out from under you."
He pretended not to see the faint grin, and refused to admit there was a hint of a smile on his own face.