Chapter Five: No Church in the Wild
Sean is often underestimated. People look at him and see wild ginger hair, red-rimmed eyes and a skinny figure, and all they think is, 'he is a druggie'. Some look at him and shake their heads in confusion, 'such potential there, but all he is good at is being a bad clown'. Some do not spare him even a fleeting glance. It never hurts him, not like it should. Because Sean closes his eyelids tighter and dreams of kinsmen, blue and red, with tales and horns, with wings and fur. He lets himself dream the perfect world, which never clashes with reality and which he yearns to live in someday.
Maybe that is the reason why he stands up for Alex. Maybe that is why he squares his shoulders, when Eric and Charles look at all of them, a half-formed idea shining brightly in their eyes and grim doubt set in the corners of their lips. Maybe that is why, when Raven steals his honey, he only squints at her, imagining all kinds of slow torture he could put her through before Professor discovers Sean's hideout. Maybe that is why, when he is pushed out of the window, he doesn't throw a hissy fit, cracking a few jaws in process. Maybe that is the reason why Sean pays attention and tries so hard to follow Professor's instructions.
Sean loves asking 'why', okay? When he used to be a kid, Sean would go to his Mommy, tug on her skirt 'till she looked down upon him, and then would proceed to babble whywhywhy until there was no more breath in his lungs. And his mother, who smelled of baked goods, her beloved gloxinias and of something wistful, fleeting, like a butterfly touch on your cheek or a sunbeam on your pillow, his mother would laugh ever so gentle and whisper to him the stories of how the sun and the moon were born, how rivers came to be, how brave the first sprouts were.
When he used to be a kid, Sean didn't have a lot of friends, even before the Incident. He was an oddball, who had a habit of pickpocketing wallets from his numerous uncles and aunts, grandparents and cousins, and then buying cotton candy all for himself. Maybe that is why his cousins disliked him, because Sean didn't like sharing. Or maybe because he was an expert in hide-and-seek and other children just couldn't find him.
But now there are people, who he can imagine himself becoming friends with.
There is Lucy, sweet, caring, gentle Lucy, a girl with the extraordinary gift to ease one's soul and to bring a smile to one's face. There is Alex, who is grumpy and who constantly pulls everyone's pigtails, but also tells you the goddamn truth, even if it bleeds afterwards, and maybe Sean wants to punch Alex in the guts sometimes, but he respects the older boy for never sugarcoating the harsh reality. And if Alex is in the room, you most certainly will spot Armando in close vicinity. Armando is an oddball, too, just like Sean, but he adapts, and changes, and never stops evolving, and Sean envies him that. And he also envies Raven, beautiful and lively Raven, who is not afraid to shamelessly elbow her way into your life and bounce up to you whenever she needs someone to gossip with. And how could he have forgotten Hank! Shy and modest, Hank stutters in the company of girls, doesn't know what to say to Alex's jabs, and is clumsy as a penguin, but if you look past all of the blushing and stuttering, you will see a brilliant person who is so much stronger than he is given credit for.
All those wonderful people are his friends, his first real mutant friends.
And the spacious grand mansion is a shelter, a safe haven, home.
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Alex loves the house they are staying in. It is not home, not exactly. Home, in Alex's perception, is a place you grew up in, a place which has your family. But the thing is, his family don't even know if he is alive or dead, and he grew up in a jail. So, he doesn't really have a lot of experience in all things home.
It is just past seven a.m. when Alex walks into the kitchen, only to find Susan putting away a newspaper with an irritated huff.
"Good morning, Susan," he greets her, going for the coffee pot.
"Morning, Alex," she gives a quick little smile and returns to her tea.
"What's in the papers?"
"Nothing," she rolls her eyes and crunches her nose in distaste, as if whatever is printed there offends her, "just a load of utter rubbish."
Alex shrugs, "Are you in today?"
"Sure, that's what we're here for, no?"
"Yeah, but I've never seen you use your powers, not once."
"Sometimes it's better to stay in the shadows, rather than be the show, Alex."
"Lucy told us that you can say creepy things, but why you, adults, can't be straightforward? Do you all follow some code from the book you get on your twenty first birthday, where it's said to be as cryptic as possible?"
"Stop it. You're ranting. I'm being generous, trying to give you the word of wisdom and letting you figure it out yourself. But if you believe yourself dense, then I can be straightforward. You just have to say a word."
"You're a horrible, horrible woman, Ms. Pevensie!"
Susan laughs at the smirking man and takes a sip from her mug, "And you, young sir, are a flatterer."
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Hank enjoys tinkering in the lab, but it is hard to reject the allure of observing other mutants' training. It is exciting and new, with endless possibilities so close that he can stretch out his hand towards them and feel the flutter of the delicate silk wings.
That is why he stands close to Charles, a few feet away from Susan. The woman has her eyes closed, brows furrowed in concentration.
"What is she thinking?" Hank is a scientist and morals are loose for men of science, when they thirst to know. And Charles, despite all the veneer of nobleness and ethic, is a scientist at heart, too.
"Of arms and warmth," Charles's answer is vague, but the way he says those words, tender and wistful, makes them tangible, heavy with half-tones of the feeling of belonging and simple human love.
Suddenly the earth trembles. The groans and screeches fill the air, as if something is being mercilessly ripped straight from the bowels of the earth. The air itself suddenly becomes hot and thick, making it difficult to breathe. And then the ground shatters and an unimaginable amount of tiny, barely visible cracks appear, allowing tiny green sprouts grow out of the soil. Sprouts turn into daffodils and lilies, grow into hydrangea and honeysuckle bushes, flourish to gracile cypresses and rich cherry blossoms. Grass itself becomes greener, newer, almost like the lawns shown in various ads. But the whole spectacle, the change in the weather (There is almost a mild fresh wind blowing in their faces, the air around them growing humid, there is most certainly a downpour coming), the exquisite beauty of the newly materialized flora, the huge eyes, bright green with bits of gold that are starring at the picturesque scenery, it is all too much, and Hank whispers, "Impossible".
It is a wrong thing to say, it turns out.
If you asked him later about what had happened, Hank wouldn't be able to tell you anything but, "The Atlas shrugged and tore his mask away, leaving only the essence of what he is".
He doesn't remember much before the blackout, but he without doubt saw Susan tearing at her hair, her mouth opened wide in a silent scream. Her pretty face marred by the animalistic rage and muddy cracks in her marble skin. And then the feeling of flying and the dark.
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When Sean flies into one of the many bathrooms in Xavier's mansion, he expects it to be empty as many other rooms he has searched for her in. And he is almost out of the door, before he sees dirty footsteps on the white floor and stops.
She is sitting in the bath, curled into a naked ball, her head is burrowed into the knees, and there are unmistakable sounds of broken heaving sobs. She is dirty and she is a trembling mess, and yet, Sean thinks, reaching for her, she has never looked more ethereal.
Her shoulder is bony, transparent and unresponsive neither to his hand nor to the warm water on her back nor to the light towel fabric that he wraps her in. He tries to get her up, but she is a dead weight, a wadding doll in his arms.
But when he puts her under the covers, she digs her nails in his arm, drawing blood, and whispers in a voice full of beach sand, "Don't go". It is as much a command as a plea. And Sean, he stays and when her lips start murmuring, he leans in closer and listens to every word of her crumpled confession.
"I grew up in the 50's. I hated it, the music, the smell, the miserable faces. But most of all I hated women who chose to become hothouse flowers. I saw what men reduced them to, perfect little housewives good enough only to birth children and look after their husbands. And I swore that I would sooner jump off a building than become like them, like my own Mother. And when I showed interest in being me, this Susan you know, she told me only cheap whores pose for the camera, that no self-respecting man would want me. And I though, let it be, let me be cheap and a whore, but not nothing, anything but that.
"She threw me out. She took my home from me. And then all of them just took and took and never gave even a scrap back. But every one of them wanted me, they got in line just to have my photo. And I thought, let them.
"But my brother, you know, he had never taken anything that I was not freely giving. And yet he gave me a world and made me a Queen. And I- I left him," her cheek is warm and damp when she puts it on Sean's stomach and then she breathes in and smiles ever so slightly, "You smell of apples".
"Are you hungry, Suz? Do you-"
"Just stay. Don't go."
And Sean doesn't even want to leave.
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Lucy surveys the scorched grounds, the charred trees, the blackened marble of the stairs, the white ashes that cover the earth like snow. Lucy sees miserable despair, but feels only anger and hate. Yet again Susan has ruined something that Lucy adored, found joy in, loved.
There is something dark splashing in her subconsciousness, something bitter and lonely, waiting to be used, to be explored, to be one. And the girl knows that she must be fighting her instincts, that she must squash them even before the idea forms in her head, but the sense of the loss embraces her, sips into her bones and doesn't leave her.
She wants what is rightfully hers back. And she will get it. Have no doubt about it.
Lucy goes on her knees, puts her hands into the ashes and wishes for retribution and recovery. Wishes the last hours gone, destroyed in the wheel of time, annihilated from memory of the earth.
And if the light in her soul flickers, no one will know.
AN: When reading the Sean/Susan part, I advise you to listen to Shoot your gun by 20-20s.