The Greatest Love Of All

Part One

   "Catch me if you can, corn-fed!"

   Rebecca's voice rings out across the lawn of the Xavier Estate, before she accelerates from a standing start and begins her customary vaulting, flipping and twisting, her body flexing and uncoiling like a freshly-oiled spring. Above her, the distinctive chemical tang of Sam Guthrie's personal "blast field" hangs heavy in the air as he soars overhead, his flight suit encased by a golden glow of energy. It trails off into the distance almost as far as I can see – and I can see a long way. Having almost avian eyes means I can see a lot farther than even Wolverine can (it's one of the benefits of being a literal angel, along with hollow bones, dense muscles, and a little pinch of super-strength). Thanks to that extended field of vision, I can see Sam easily turning lazy corkscrews along his flight path, as if he has no doubt about how this encounter is going to end. Apparently those years as leader of X-Force have given him a confidence that is hard to discredit.

   I put down the book I was reading, and then turn my full attention to the high-speed ballet the two of them are putting on, fascinated by how both of them seem so utterly and completely absorbed into what they're each doing. I'm sure Rebecca knows that I'm watching her, but she doesn't let it show – her movements are as controlled and focused as they almost always are; there is no wasted motion where she is concerned. For his part, Sam is always alert, watching Rebecca with his keen brown eyes even as he accelerates in front of her. His head follows her every move, while his body automatically makes course corrections to compensate. The air behind him wavers slightly as it is superheated by his blast field, creating an effect that is not usually seen in upstate Westchester. It makes me think more of Johannesburg than of New York – and that feeling is reinforced when the rippling heat wafts across my face, a hot, dry wind that hurts my eyes. I turn my head momentarily until the heat has disappeared, and then return my attention to my daughter, who by now has stopped moving. She stands perfectly still, apparently braced for impact. I can see the grin on Sam's face as he realises what she's doing, and then he alights on the ground in front of her, setting his feet gently down on the thick grass. He waves his finger at her disparagingly as the last traces of his blast field evaporate, and then shakes his head as if he is scolding an unruly schoolchild. His expression piques my curiosity, and I push myself to my feet and walk over to where the two young mutants are standing.

   "How did you know when to stop?" Rebecca is asking Sam as I arrive within earshot.

   Sam grins. "You think you're the first person to ever think about makin' me knock myself out that way?" he says rhetorically, scratching his left sideburn with two fingertips. "If I had a nickel for every time some bad guy's tried to do that to me, I'd be able to buy this mansion twice over. Hell, it even worked sometimes, too." He laughs, before he sees me approaching, book in hand. "Hey, Mr Worthington," he says respectfully, taking a few steps back from Rebecca as he does so. "I was just, uh… teachin' your daughter some combat techniques."

   That makes me laugh, despite myself. "Relax, Sam. I saw the whole thing – you're in the clear." I gesture towards the tree where I had been reading, and tap my book with my free hand. "Rebecca knew I was there – I'm sorry if you didn't. I honestly didn't mean to startle you like that, I promise."

   Rebecca nods, grinning. "Yeah, Dad's like that. Good intentions, but no tact or subtlety." She rolls her eyes. "I guess I should've told you he was there, too, but I didn't see the need – he wasn't exactly getting in the way, and I could tell he didn't want to, either, so I left him alone."

   "That's good to know, I guess," Sam says, slightly nervously – which I find surprising, especially considering what kind of man Sam has grown into. He turns to me again and continues "Didn't want you to feel like I was intrudin' on your daughter's privacy or nothin', Mr Worthington, sir."

   I wave my hand dismissively. "Ah, don't worry about it, Sam. Really, I mean it – don't worry. You're one of the family, buddy – you don't have anything to worry about."

   Rebecca picks her towel off the grass, wipes her face off and says "I'm going for a shower, Sam. Then I'll see you for dinner, okay?" She wraps her towel around her neck and jogs off across the lawn. Both Sam and I watch her go, Sam's eyes lingering on her apparently without his realising it.

   "She's great, isn't she?" I say quietly, folding my arms across my chest and shifting my feet slightly so that the sun catches the maximum area of my wings.

   "Yeah, that she is, Mr Worthington, sir," Sam says, turning back to me somewhat guiltily. I might not be a telepath, but I can tell what Sam is thinking (hey, I was his age once. I know what goes on in young guys' minds where pretty girls are concerned). "You sure do have a swell daughter there."

   I smile, pulling one side of my mouth up to show gleaming teeth, and laugh quietly. "Well, I should hope so – Betsy and I put a lot of effort into potty-training her, you know. We had her in diapers for months before she could use the bathroom herself."

   Sam blinks in surprise, and dips his brows in confusion. "But… but I thought she was never that young…" he says in a puzzled tone, scratching his temple and looking like a little boy before his first spelling bee.

   "No, she was never that young," I reassure him, laying a hand on his forearm, and squeezing gently. "Sometimes it seems like we've been at this whole deal for years, though. I used to think that not having to deal with poopy diapers and teething troubles would be a blessing – boy, did I ever get that one wrong. At least babies don't keep asking you if they can borrow the car, or stay in their room for hours on end, listening to the same damn Nirvana CD over and over again, when you tell them they can't get their nose pierced." I smile ruefully and stretch my wings, easing out a few last lingering cramps in my flight muscles. "Yeah, sometimes having Becca as a baby seems like a really good idea."

   Sam laughs uneasily, touching the nape of his neck with a quick, nervous movement of his hand, before he takes a deep breath and blurts "Um, Mr Worthington, sir? I was just wonderin', you know, if I could take your daughter out on Saturday night? Just to the movies an' dinner, you understand, nothin' more." He gulps, as if he's terrified of what I'm going to say next (which surprises me, frankly. Sam's a lot braver than he lets on). "I'd be a perfect gentleman, sir. She'd be safer'n all the gold in Fort Knox, I promise."

   Time to milk the "overbearing dad" routine for all it's worth, I think wickedly. Standing to my full height, my wings towering over Sam like a pair of hanging judges, I step closer to him so that we are eye to eye, our chests just a few centimetres apart. I curl my lip, as if I'm horrified at the very idea of what Sam's suggesting, and say, in a sibilant whisper "What?"

   Sam swallows nervously again. "I… I asked you if I could take Rebecca out to the movies on Saturday night, sir," he says quietly, clearly taken aback by my abrupt change in attitude… just as I planned.

   "You… do realise that if I let you do this, and Rebecca comes home and tells me you mistreated her in any way, I will not let you get away with it, don't you? I will take you down, boy. I mean that," I snarl, in such a way that anybody watching would know instantly that I was putting it on. However, Sam is already so worked up that he buys it totally, and takes a few steps backwards, as if he is expecting me to hit him in the face with my wings at any moment. I let him stew for a second or two before my angry expression fades into a wide smile. "Sorry, Sam," I say, immediately. "I just couldn't resist. It's the first time anybody's asked me for permission to date my daughter, and I had to try that out just the one time."

   "Oh." Sam sounds unconvinced, and keeps his distance, just to be safe. "So… I can take her out?"

   "Sure, Sam, go ahead – but I'd ask her first, if I were you. She is an adult, after all. She doesn't need me, or Betsy, to chaperone her right now." I shrug briefly. "Just make sure you bring her back in one piece, all right? Or I will stand up for my little girl." I incline my head forwards slightly, and point a cocked index finger at him to underline my point. "And I really do mean that."

   "You can count on me, Mr Worthington, sir," Sam says, his face lighting up with an almost teenaged excitement. "I'll treat her like she was royalty, no question."

   That makes me smile. "You better," I tell him with a slightly more light-hearted expression. "And please, Sam, stop calling me 'Mr Worthington, sir'; I get enough of that at work as it is. I don't need it at home, too. Just call me 'Warren' – or, if you must, call me 'Wings'. Just please don't talk to me like I'm paying your wages, okay?"

   Sam shifts uncomfortably on his feet for a moment or two, before his face brightens and he says "If you say so… Warren," he says uncertainly, clearly still quite ill at ease with calling me by my first name. I suppose his down-home manners must be pretty hard to shrug off, even after living away from his mother and his kinfolk for so long. I think I'm going to have to make him feel a little more comfortable about doing it, so I nudge him playfully in the ribs with a loosely-balled fist.

   "Attaboy," I say encouragingly, giving him my best and most disarming grin. "That's more like it. I'm telling you, Sam, you don't need to feel like you have to talk up to me; we're all equals in this house." I lay my hands on his shoulders and give him an encouraging look. "All right?"

   Sam takes a deep breath and nods very slightly. "I gotcha," he says softly, before he manages to crack a smile and ask in a slightly stronger voice "So what kind of flowers should I get her?"

   "Ask her mother, Sam," I say, slightly embarrassed by my inability to answer the question – which I suppose Sam could think of as his own unique method of paying me back for my actions earlier. "I have absolutely no idea – although red roses always seemed to work for a first date, where I was concerned." Sam laughs, displaying a deeper and more relaxed expression of amusement than he would have been capable of a few minutes ago.

   "Yeah, but with all due respect, I ain't you," he replies, with a broad grin crossing his lightly-tanned features. "Maybe I will ask Rebecca's momma, just to be on the safe side."

   I laugh, prodding Sam gently in the ribs again. "Good idea, Sam. Best to cover all your bases before you try hitting that home run, right?"

   "Guess so," Sam replies. "I'll see you round, sir – uh, Warren."

   "That's my boy," I say, touching my brow with a fingertip. "Keep thinking like that and you'll get a long way in life, I promise. Take care, Sam." I turn and wander nonchalantly away from him, towards the tennis courts on the other side of the mansion's grounds. I can hear Scott and Jean playing a fast game in the court closest to me, Scott's grunts of exertion clearly meaning that he is having the worst of it. As I near the court, I can see that Scott's t-shirt is soaked with sweat and his legs are twitching with exhaustion. "Hey, Scooter, don't you think you ought to just throw in the towel?" I call to him as soon as I'm in shouting range. Scott turns and I can see that his special sports goggles are steamed with perspiration also. Jean, for her part looks mostly untroubled, her hair still all contained in the ponytail that hangs between her shoulders, and her clothes relatively dry.

   "Don't push it, Warren," Scott tells me breathlessly. "It's not my fault Jean's been using her powers to influence my game." As she hears that, Jean puts her hands on her hips indignantly, her racket still clutched in her right fist.

   "I beg your pardon?" she asks, incredulous. "I have not been using my powers. It's not my fault if you can't play tennis, Scott."

   Scott waves her quiet with a flick of his wrist. "Ah, I'm sorry, Jean. I'm just out of practice, that's all." He assumes a receiving stance, ready to return Jean's serve.

   "Aw, don't be like that, pookie," Jean says, chuckling. "There's no shame in admitting I'm better than you." She winks at me. "I think it's his male ego refusing to be beaten by somebody with cooties, don't you, Warren?"

   "Sounds like it to me," I tell her, ignoring the look of betrayal that Scott gives me. "Just like when we were in school. Couldn't take being beaten by the only girl in class, could you, Scooter?"

   Scott looks at the sky. "Why do you do this to me, Lord?" he asks, throwing his hands out to his sides. "What did I do to deserve friends like these?"

   "Worked your ass off and generally been a great, stand-up kinda guy?" I offer, constructively, before I enter the court and throw him the towel that was resting by the side of the net. "Here – you look like you could use that, buddy."

   "Thanks, Warren," Scott says gratefully, rubbing the towel over the sweat-soaked skin of his face and neck, after picking up the medium-sized bottle that had been lying against the wall of the court and liberally pouring some fresh water over his head. "Wow. I guess I really am out of practice. I never sweat this much." He laughs, adjusting his goggles slightly and then trading them for his regular glasses. "I think I need a drink. You coming, Jean – I could make you one of my patented Summers milkshakes, if you'd like one?" He throws her the other towel at the base of the net, which she catches telekinetically and then rubs delicately over her face and hands, soaking up the beaded sweat at her hairline and on her palms. Scott passes her the water bottle, and she runs a delicate stream of water over her face, before wiping her wet hands on her shorts and exhaling gently.

   "Man, I really, truly need a shower," she says, ruffling her hair out a little before she turns to Scott. "But before I do, Scott – yes, a Summers milkshake would be… heaven, thank you."

   Scott grins, and puts his racquet back in the long, heavy sports bag that was nestled near the gat of the court. "Great. Better get to the kitchen before the others steal all the ingredients – I think I saw Hank nosing around the last of the ice cream this morning… and you know what he's like. I think he wants to get revenge on you for stealing those candy bars."

   Jean laughs and knots her damp hair into a loose ponytail, before picking up her kit bag and walking towards the door of the court. "Hank's not the vindictive type, guys. He wouldn't do that to me. Well, maybe he'd take some of my clothes and cover them in fur, but that'd be as far as it went. He knows better than to do anything worse to the person who knows where he keeps his fur trimmer, after all." She holds her hands up, waggling her fingers in a villainous kind of way, and twists her face into a cackling caricature of itself. "He and Bobby aren't the only one who can pull practical jokes, you know…"

*

   The three of us reach the mansion's kitchen after a roundabout stroll through the grounds, watching the visiting Rogue and her girlfriend Jenny playing a game of catch with a football (I think Rogue overstepped the boundaries of the game when she intercepted a wide pass by flying to stop the ball. At least that was the impression I got, considering Jenny's reaction…), and seeing the visiting Jubilee playing tag with Logan, Bobby, Paige (who also asked to stay for a little while longer when the rest of the Gen X kids left for Massachusetts), and Remy. Remy still cast a few lingering glances towards Rogue now and then, and Jean winced once or twice when his pain became a little too much to bear – which is probably why Rogue is only staying for a couple of days until she and Jenny can get going again.

   As we enter the kitchen, I say "And here I thought Betsy and I had a screwed-up relationship…"

   Jean nods, understanding my implicit statement immediately. "Yes, it's been really tough for Remy these last couple of weeks. Rogue wouldn't even have come back so soon if she and Jenny hadn't needed a place to stop over until they can move on again."

   "Where are they supposed to be going to?" Scott asks, perhaps reasonably. Jean shrugs.

   "Rogue doesn't seem to know," she replies. "She said that she and Jenny are just having a bit of a road trip so that they can see some of the country together. She thought they'd eventually wind up in California or somewhere like that before they came back for good." She exhales audibly, puffing her cheeks out for a second or two. "She also told me that she wanted Jenny to see Caldecott County, Mississippi."

   "Wow," I say, genuinely surprised. "I'd have thought Rogue would've wanted to keep away from there, considering what she's been through."

   Jean pulls her mouth into a thin line for a second or two, and raises her eyebrows. "Me too, but Rogue apparently is treating this whole deal like a fresh start. You know, putting a line under everything that happened before, and starting again. Can't blame her, myself – especially after all that's happened between her and Remy."

   "I guess not," I concede. "I know I'd feel that way in her position."

   Before Jean can reply, Rebecca comes bounding into the kitchen with a broad smile on her face. "Hi, Dad," she says with a grin, before throwing her arms around me and hugging me enthusiastically. "Thanks for saying what you said to Sam."

   "No problem," I say, slightly taken aback. "I take it this means you have a date?"

   "Saturday night." Rebecca pulls back from me and clasps her hands together. "He's going to take me to see Minority Report."

   "Wow. He's still as romantic as ever, I see," I reply with a gentle touch of sarcasm. "Surely he'd be better off taking you to, I dunno, a Sandra Bullock movie?"

   Rebecca scoffs at me. "Dad, don't be such a square. Don't you know I hate Sandra Bullock?" She inclines her head towards Jean and Scott and points her thumb at me dismissively. "See what I have to put up with? I –" Abruptly, she stops in mid-sentence, her words catching raggedly in her throat and her eyes rolling up inside her head, showing virtually nothing of her pupils. She gurgles in panic wordlessly, a small line of spittle flecking her chin as her legs fold underneath her and she collapses on the floor, spasms wracking her body. Jean clutches her forehead in agony as Rebecca thrashes on the floor of the kitchen.

   "It hurts," she moans. "It hurts – she's in so much pain."

   "What's wrong with her, Jean?" I ask, frantically, as I kneel down beside Rebecca's jerking form and try to steady her body so that she doesn't hurt herself on anything. "Can you tell?"

   "No," Jean gasps. "We have to get Hank."

   "I'm on it," Scott says immediately, his leadership abilities kicking in over his understandable concern for his daughter. "Warren, you contact Betsy."

   "Done," I say, after a moment or two, my thoughts transmitted over a split-second's worth of contact through the psychic rapport that Betsy and I share. "She said she was on her way anyway – she felt something was wrong, even from Salem."

   "Good," Scott says, before he stabs the intercom button and yells for Hank to get up to the kitchen, double-time. Hank responds in a moment or two, telling us to keep her comfortable until he can get up from the med-lab. Rebecca's limp hand inadvertently flaps at me and I grip it tightly, squeezing her perfect, delicate fingers in my own.

   "I'm here, sweetie. Daddy's here. You're going to be all right, okay, Rebecca? You're going to be all right. Hank's coming, baby. Hank's coming. You're going to be fine." I stroke her forehead gently, my fingers feeling a fine sheen of sweat covering her skin already. "Don't you die on me, Rebecca. Don't you die, you hear me?"

   Rebecca gurgles again, and in that sound I can hear her fear and her terror at what's happening to her.

   I've never felt so helpless.