Ghosts in the Halls
The world outside Storm's window was stark. Everything—from the squat green shrubs, to the stone benches—was a blinding white. Flake after relentless flake fell, settling on whatever it could find. It was a perfect winter morning, solemn and grey and plain. She imagined the awe the little children would feel when they saw mound after mound of snow in their yards. "Whimsical," they called it; "A regular miracle," they'd say.
To her, it was just atmospheric water vapor frozen into ice crystals. No angel tears, no magic fairy dust.
Still, she didn't complain. After all, Xavier had personally asked her for a blizzard today.
"Before the younger ones wake up," he said, in that perfectly calm voice and winsome smile—she couldn't say no to that; she already owed him so much. The least she could do was make a few ice cubes fall from the sky.
So she woke up at four and summoned the snow.
At four thirty, she sequestered herself in second floor study with a cup of hot tea. It was days like this that made her miss T'Challa and Ainet and the Serengeti. Gold sun hugged the red earth there, bringing heat from the soles of her feet to her heart. On days when it was too hot, she and Ainet used to make cold lime dawa and share it with the local kids. But here there was no monsoon season, no cool water to quench the parched earth.
"Ndiyo, ni baridi sana nje," she snorted. It's too cold outside.
"What?" laughed a familiar voice; Storm smirked. Gentle yet fiery, it reminded her of the sun. Well of course it does. She's the damn Phoenix.
"Good morning to you too, Jean. Nothing, I just said it's freezing."
"But it's so beautiful, Oro," murmured Jean, using Storm's nickname. She stared out at the blanket of powdery white snow. "Thank you."
Storm was tucked into the corners of a leather couch, an ancient copy of Paradise Lost in hand. Looking up, she replied with a curious smile. "I didn't do anything."
"Come on, you can't fool me," said Jean with a quirked brow; Storm's grin widened. "The forecast was sunny through next week. I know Charles asked you to make it snow."
"Okay, so maybe he suggested that it should snow today. But in either case, you're welcome." Storm glanced shortly at the flakes—they had begun to pile on the windowpane. A quiet sigh left her lips, and she snuggled deeper into the couch, drawing her large red blanket around her. Her azure eyes devoured the words, and she attempted to engross herself in the story. Kicking her feet to the side, she lost herself in the cushions.
But her attempts failed—Jean was still there, and what's more, she had taken a seat in a nearby chair. The redhead stared at Storm intently, knowing in her eyes.
"You spoke Swahili again. You only do that when you're upset," stated Jean matter-of-factly.
Storm ran a hand through her white hair. There was no use hiding from Jean. Although she never used her powers on friends, Storm could use someone to talk to.
She always has a way of working things out.
"I—" she faltered, but gathered her thoughts. "I just miss the Serengeti sometimes…and T'Challa. Call it homesickness, I guess."
"Is that all?" asked Jean, relief in her words. "I thought it was something much worse. Oro, we all go through the same thing. Me, Scott, Anna—even Logan in his own weird way. All of us feel nostalgic around the holidays. This time of year makes me miss my dad and his world famous Rudolph pancakes; it makes me miss my mom's gift wrapping lessons. But when I look at what I have here, all the friends I've made, it reminds me to be grateful. Xavier's worked so hard to make this place home for us, and I wouldn't give it up for the world."
Storm was silent; she knew Jean was right. God knows she missed Africa, more than she normally allowed herself to. Yet there was so much here to be grateful for. Wordlessly, she counted her blessings.
I'm not alone. That was probably the largest. The School for Gifted Youngsters gave her a community of people just like her—a gift that couldn't be measured in ribbons or wrapping paper or candy canes. It gave her pride in her gift. She no longer had to apologize for her snow white hair or explain her bright blue eyes to the children with brown eyes and black hair. Here, there were children that could walk through walls, men who could use their eyes as laser beams, and a phoenix. Dysfunctional at times, utopian at others, she had to admit—this was her home now. Even T'Challa agreed.
"I will be with you always," he said, wiping a thumb across her wet cheek. She tried her best not to cry, but a stubborn tear slid down her face anyway. "But we must follow our own paths. Yours is with them.'"
So she left. And in doing so, she discovered a place where she was wanted. Ainet had taught her well, and Storm knew there was nothing left but old memories in the dusty flatlands.
"I wouldn't either," stated Storm after a while. Jean smiled and stood, satisfied with her speech.
"Glad to hear it, because I wouldn't want to lose such a good friend," replied Jean. She took Storm's book from her lap and offered her a hand. Storm gave it a curious glance. "Now come with me, I'll teach you how to make my dad's Christmas pancakes. I think everyone could use a sweet breakfast."
"Even Logan?" chuckled Storm, folding up the blanket and giving Jean a grateful hug.
"Even Logan."
With that, the two padded out of the room and down the stairs, chattering about their past winters. As she spoke about the hot Serengeti and listened to Jean describe algid New York, Storm felt the loneliness vanish from her chest. Speaking about her past kept the good memories alive.
The staircase window had begun to fill with snow, and a smile parted her lips.
Maybe it's fairy dust after all.