Dinner had been wonderful.
Joyce couldn't remember seeing a spread like this short of a major family holiday. And the food had been marvelous. She'd called her nephew spur of the moment when she found out that she had to travel to New York City to examine a new shipment for her store. The lot had been damaged in transit, and the insurance company wanted her opinion of how bad it was. Scott had asked her to stay out in Westchester at the private school where he taught, and offered to run her back and forth and even show her the city. And now, after a meal that was fit for royalty, she mused about how well her orphaned nephew had done in his life. Joyce hadn't told Scott that she and Hank were getting divorced yet. The shipment she'd come to inspect was for her new shop, in Sunnydale. She'd write him about it when it was all over. Keep this visit happy, after all he had a good job, and a second family that seemed to truly care for him. The professor seemed to regard him almost as his own son, and that lovely African lady (Ororo?), she carried herself like a Goddess, but Joyce could tell how much she loved the people around her. And then there was Jean.
A knock came at the bedroom door.
"Joyce," came a soft voice from behind the wood, "I just wanted to make sure you didn't need anything."
Speak of the devil, Joyce thought.
"Actually, Jean," she answered, "I would like to talk to you for a few minutes, if you don't mind."
The redhead poked her head through the door, smiling.
"I assume this is the 'You'd better be good to my favorite nephew' talk?" she asked.
"What can I say," Joyce responded with a smile of her own, "I'm protective of my family."
Joyce Summers shook herself from the memories of a few years earlier. Looking down at the letter in her hand, she wondered briefly if her nephew remembered having two cousins, or only one. The whole mind boggling fact of Dawn's existence was a constant source of confusion. Everyone remembered her, Joyce even remembered giving her birth. But none of that was real. Even though Joyce could go upstairs to Dawn's room, and the Statue of Liberty that Scott had sent back for her would be sitting on the dresser, it never really happened.
Joyce stood, taking the letter she had just finished and folding it neatly before putting it into an envelope. Dawn was real. Now. And that's the only thing that mattered to Joyce Summers, forty-three year old divorced mother of two (one, no dammit, two), owner of the best Antique and Art shop in Sunnydale, California (oh, be honest Joycey, the ONLY Antique and Art shop in good old Sunnydale). She was protective of her family, and Dawn was family.
She put the name on the envelope before she realized that she had left the address book upstairs in her bedside table. She set the envelope down on the table in the hallway, planning to address it later. Right now, she just wanted to rest for a little while. She ran her hand through the sandy hair with it's very few strands of grey, the surgery had been harder on her than she would have liked. She was just tired far too much of the time.
She was standing in front of the sofa when it hit. A sharp pain in her head, not far from the scar left by the operation. As she fell backwards onto the couch, one thought went through her mind.
"…who'll take care of my babies?"
I Travels and Puzzles"So lemme get this straight," the man known as Logan started, propping his legs up on the mahogany coffee table. "Yer goin' to LA to see a former student of yours give a lecture on Genetics?"
"Henry McCoy, yes," answered Professor Charles Xavier, headmaster of the Xavier School for Gifted Children in Salem Center, New York. He had a presence that demanded attention, and received it. Even in his wheel chair he made an imposing man, dressing only in the finest suits, his baldness seeming simply to amplify the air of intelligence around him. And his eyes were the piercing kind of blue that seemed to look right through any pretense that might be directed towards them. Most people, even those who had known him for years, called him "Professor."
Logan was not most people. Cracking open the beer he'd brought into the meeting with him, he took a deep drink, ran his hand through his thick black hair with it's unruly wing like tips. He looked out of place in this perfect Victorian study. His rugged features with the ever-present sideburns and five o'clock shadow, and his outdoors way of dressing sat in stark contrast to the surroundings.
"And yer takin' Red and Scooter here with ya, right Chuck?" he gestured towards two of the others in the meeting, a tall young man with boy-scout good looks and a deep red pair of glasses named Scott Summers, and a statuesque red-headed, green-eyed woman named Jean Grey. As much as Logan looked out of place, they both looked like they belonged here. Summers exuded an air of control, with short cut brown hair and his dark turtleneck, every bit what one would expect from a teacher in a private school such as this. Grey, in her red sweater and green slacks, wore her reading glasses to the meeting, giving her the appearance of the doctor she was. Unlike Summers, however, the slightest mischievous streak could just be seen behind her eyes.
"Of course, I wouldn't dream of traveling alone, Logan." Xavier smiled, "I'm sure everything will be fine."
"So tell me, Professor, how is Henry these days?" asked Ororo Munroe, looking, as always, what could only be called regal. Her white hair and blue eyes set a striking counter to the dark brown of her skin. She looked and sounded like African royalty. Wearing one of her long skirts and a loose flowing blouse of matching blue, one could easily tell how she demanded nothing but the best from her students.
"Doing well, I understand," Xavier said, "He's been quite busy since the last paper he published. Seems the medical community is in something of an uproar over his ideas." He paused for a moment, "I do regret that he felt the need to continue his work elsewhere, however. Such a brilliant mind could do wonders with the school. And his experiences would make him very understood by the children."
"Wha' 'appen to 'im?" Asked the last meeting member, Remy LeBeau. Remy was the youngest of the faculty, and the newest. Not an actual teacher, like the others, he acted more as an overseer for the student body. His appearance matched his Cajun dialect. Easygoing and charming, he would almost always be found in jeans and a tee shirt, both in immaculate condition, and he kept his long auburn hair tied back in a ponytail. His eyes were almost always hidden behind a pair of dark sunglasses, which protected his sensitive eyes from the light. They also kept the fact that his eyes were black where they should be white, and deep blood red in the iris from being public knowledge. Without that, you couldn't tell by looking at him that he was a mutant.
In fact, everyone in the room was a mutant. To be precise, everyone in the school was a mutant. That's why the school existed. Over the past few decades, more and more children had developed unique abilities or attributes, which set them apart from the majority of the human race. Some were amazing, some were horrifying, and almost all were shunned in society.
Mutants were, depending on whom you asked, considered either the next step in human evolution, or the deadliest threat to the human race.
"Henry is a brilliant man, and was a brilliant youth," the Professor answered. "But he had a rude awakening in his junior year of high school. His mutation gave him greatly enhanced strength and agility, and a somewhat simian form." Xavier continued.
"Thing is," Scott picked up, "He was from Dundee, Illinois. Dundee is a prime example of the small Midwestern community. Everyone thought he was a bit misshapen, but was perfectly willing to overlook it because they all knew his family."
"Let's not forget team pride," added Jean.
"Pride?" Logan asked.
"When he entered eighth grade," Xavier said, "He tried out for the school football team, and rapidly became its star. He took the school to three years worth of championships." The Professor rested his head on his hands for a moment before continuing, "He was a local hero. No one looked down on him, despite his appearance. He was a top level athlete, and with a grade point average of 4.0, he was scheduled to graduate a year early."
"So what changed?" asked Logan.
"Recruiters came from several colleges for the Homecoming game of his junior year," Xavier replied. "Not one stayed for the start of the game. They all commented that having a mutant on the team was not fair, and that Henry had no business playing."
"Hank was shattered," said Jean. "He knew he had an edge because of his physical form, but honestly thought it was the years of exercise and practice that gave him his skill." She paused for a minute, then continued, "He'd never even heard the word 'Mutant' spoken aloud before that night. He quit school and locked himself in his room the next day."
"His parents found our number in a national paper," Xavier added, "We finally convinced Henry to join the school. But that episode scarred him beyond what we thought. He began work on retro-genetic therapy to reverse the mutation process. His brilliance is unmatched, and he arrived at the experimental stage after two years. Knowing that I would disagree with this method, he left the school rather than cause dissention."
"You'd disagree?" came Remy's voice.
"I'm a firm believer in letting nature run her course," replied Xavier. "But I can understand his drive, and would not have interfered. There could be other benefits to such work, but I digress. Henry and I worked together for quite some time to discover the nature of human mutation, and perhaps find a method of determining what the nature of this evolution process would ultimately be. We even published a few papers together, and one with Dr. Moira McTaggart. When he discovered the potential of retro therapy, he felt that he could best proceed elsewhere."
"It didn't take long for Hank to land a position with Washington University Medical Center," Jean continued the story, "He's been there for the past few years, although he's stayed in touch with all of us, and even come up for a few holidays with his parents."
"Seems ta me he's just chasing a dream we all probably though about a time or two," said Logan, standing up, "I'm headed to the kitchen for a fresh brew," he walked towards the door, "Nice to know he's still tight with his folks. Doesn't work that way for everyone…" he commented as he exited the room.
"He's right you know," commented Ororo, "We all would have liked to rid ourselves of our gifts at one time or another." She stood up, and faced the Professor smiling, "I believe that you and Henry have worked out whatever differences you may have had."
Xavier had a smile of his own as he turned towards her, "Indeed. I trust you three can look after the school in our absence?"
"Of course, Professor. Classes are done, and some of the students have gone for the summer. I think that Logan, Remy and I can handle the rest."
"It's settled then," Xavier concluded, "Remy, would you be so kind as to bring the van around and drive us to Laguardia? Our flight leaves in a few hours."
"Oui, Professor," the Cajun replied, "Be out front in ten minutes, mes amis."
"I give up!"
Cordelia Chase looked up from the dusty tome she had been studying for the last hour and a half. "I can't find any thing like that bone…whatisit?" She was an attractive woman in her early twenties, with short brown hair and a smile that could illuminate a cave. However, there was a look in her dark eyes that gave her age beyond her years, as if she had seen all of human suffering at once. Which in fact, she had. She received visions that the firm she worked for used to aid people in need. These visions came with a severe price, the kind of pain that has to be experienced to be believed.
Wesley Windham Price looked up at her over the top of his glasses, "Shuriken, also called a Chinese throwing star," he spoke like a teacher, particularly with his English accent. He held the object up to the light, studying the bone artifact. "Nothing here either," he commented. "Why don't we take a break for a while." He stood and stretched his lean frame, placing his glasses more firmly on his nose. "I don't think the books are going anywhere this evening." Although he had taken to dressing less like a Yale librarian in the last year, his appearance still screamed "Prep school" at the top of its lungs.
The two co-workers made their way up to the front of their offices in the Hyperion Hotel lobby. "This is not what I had in mind when I moved to L.A." Cordelia sighed.
"The mind numbing research or the head splitting visions?" asked Wesley.
"Take your pick," she muttered, pouring herself some coffee.
The phone rang at that point, and Cordelia reached over to pick it up,
"Angel Investigations, we help the hopeless," she said into the mouthpiece.
"Cordy, it's me," came the reply,
"Angel!" she turned to Wesley, "They're checking in, do we have anything?"
"Not unless you count eyestrain," the Englishman replied, "Tell them to come on back, we're out of ideas."
"You and Gunn head back in," said Cordelia into the phone, "We've researched ourselves out."
"Yeah, we haven't found anything out here either," came the reply. "Not even another one of those Shuriken. We'll be there in five."
"'Kay, bye," she turned her attention back to Wesley as she hung up the phone. "They can't find anything at the scene either. Is it me, or do we not have any idea what we're looking for?"
"What we're looking for," started Wesley, "Is some evidence of what's been happening in the Los Angeles demon population. According to the Host, several of his regulars have simply stopped showing up."
"Demon hunters?" offered Cordelia as the two made their way back to the stacks of books.
"Not unless they're taking the bodies with them," Wesley sighed, rubbing his right temple, "I've never known one to do that. So far, we're missing at least eight known demons in the downtown area. None that were actively threatening to anyone. And the only clue we've found so far is this thing. A Shuriken made of bone." He pointed towards the eight-pointed throwing star. "I honestly don't know what we're facing, or if we're facing anything."
Cordelia sighed and picked up a fresh book. "Well," she muttered, "at least I don't have the migraine from hell to deal with…"
"Ladies and Gentlemen, Dr. Henry McCoy."
Applause thundered through the ampitheater of the hotel as Dr. McCoy came to the podium to deliver the opening statements for the First Annual United Medical Association Conference on Human Mutation. He was an imposing figure, although he only stood at five foot, ten inches, he easily weighed two hundred eighty pounds. His shoulders were broad and thick, as were the arms attached to them. His arms also reached further down his leg than most, ending just above the knee in huge, dense hands. His legs were a little bit short for his form, giving him a slightly hunched appearance. Added to this, a thick patch of ruffled brown hair, with an overhanging ridge above his eyes, and one could easily understand his high school nickname of "Beast." In a move that was almost comical, given his appearance, he pulled a small, fine wired pair of glasses from the pocket of the custom tuxedo he wore, and put them on his face.
"Honored guests," he started, with a smooth rich voice that sounded as if it should be reading the Bard, "Thank you for your accolades. But at this conference, I am one of many who should be so richly welcomed. All of you here have studied the nature of Human Mutation, and all of you have been equally baffled, and amazed, by what you've discovered. As a dear friend of mine once told the Senate, we stand on the edge of the next stage of human evolution. I once studied to find a way to reverse this process, to return the genie to the bottle, and reverse the nature of evolution itself. I now believe that to be erroneous thought. We cannot change what is, and Pandora's box has long since been opened. It is my fervent hope that this conference, and others that will indubitably follow, will instead open the doors for new hope for those who discover, as I did, that they are different. For unlike myself, some Mutants are changed in ways that are dangerous to themselves and those around them. Only by understanding the cause of the mutation process, do we have any hope of helping our children to become what they are truly meant to be, and therefore give them the means to secure their own destinies." He paused for a moment, then pulled the glasses down his nose and looked over them at the audience. "But there will be enough time to discuss issues like this over the next week. Right now," he gestured broadly with both arms, indicating the hotel around them, "The bar is open, the hourdeoves are wonderful, and it's time we got to know each other!"
As the crowd applauded once more, one man said quietly from the shadows where no one could see him "Yes, Dr. McCoy. We should get to know each other."
"Well, Henry," commented Professor Xavier, "I must say that I am impressed with your work."
"Thank you Professor," came the reply, "I was worried about my appearance and how that would affect the reception of my work by my esteemed colleges," Henry McCoy paused for a second before continuing, allowing the image of a Neanderthal in a tuxedo to speak for itself for a moment. "I would appear that I have severely underestimated the tolerance level of the average Genetics researcher."
"Hank McCoy," teased Jean, "Is that humor I hear in that voice?"
The three were exiting the Radisson in downtown Los Angeles, where conference was being held. Hank had agreed to escort the two of them to the parking garage, while Scott retrieved their vehicle.
"I've learned," said Hank, "That as outrageous as my appearance is, it is time to accept what I am. I just regret that it took me so long to come to that decision, and I sometimes wonder what work I might have accomplished had I not been on my quest after windmills."
"I wouldn't worry about such things, Henry," commented Xavier, "Part of life is learning to accept what we are, human and mutant alike. If I'd had your scientific knowledge when I was your age, I might well have done the same thing."
No one noticed a figure on the fire escape above them, peering down. Large and lithe, the figure stepped up to the railing of the landing on which he stood. "McCoy," was all he muttered as he prepared to launch himself down upon the unsuspecting trio.
As the staff of Angel Investigations compared notes, one thing became clear very quickly. No one had any idea what was going on.
"Most of these missing demons have been here for years, according to the Host," Wesley was commenting. "It's unusual that someone that rooted would vanish without telling anybody."
Angel, the firm's original owner, voiced his agreement. "Particularly since they all seemed comfortable." He had doffed his customary black coat upon arrival, and stood in black jeans and a white shirt. Standing a full head taller than Wesley, with brown hair and eyes set on a rugged, intelligent face, he made a very imposing figure when he so desired. As well he should, since he was also a two hundred year old vampire.
"So why are we worried about this, exactly?" asked Gunn, the last of the crew. He was a street kid as a youth, and his dark skinned face showed some of the worries of those days still, even when he smiled, which was fairly often. However, no one had yet asked him if his lack of hair was by choice or circumstance. He dressed, as always, in the clothes that one expected from "the 'Hood."
"It could be an indication of something to come," muttered Wesley, distracted, "Frequently, larger demons will need a sacrifice of lesser ones in order to bridge into this realm."
"So we're worried about someone really bad steppin' into the street?"
"Either that or someone's offering demons apartments in…" Cordelia started, "Oh,"
"Cordy?" asked Angel, concerned.
"Damn…" was all Cordelia Chase could manage to say before the vision struck. Then she screamed.
An alley. Dark. Flash of fangs. A well worn and frequently sewn trench coat. Blood. Hands with claws. A sign. A garage. More fangs. A cave man?
"…why did I have to say that?" Cordelia asked. She had started to fall backwards when the vision struck her, but Angel had quickly come around behind her, catching her as she fell.
"What did you see?" he asked gently.
"Uhm, a Neanderthal, I think. Attacking a homeless guy? Something about a trench coat that had seen much better days. And a sign! It said 'Radisson Parking: Guests Only.'" She turned to Wesley, "It's happening now! We gotta go!"
"I'll drive," said Angel as all four headed towards the door, he handed Cordelia over to Wesley so he could help her out. "That's just about ten blocks from here."
Angel pulled the car into a space across the street from the Radisson, barely coming to an actual stop before he was leaping out of the black convertible.
"Gunn," he said, tossing his keys to the young man, "There's weapons in the trunk." And with that he ran across the street and down the alley towards the parking garage.
Gunn popped the GTX's trunk open, and grabbed a short two-handed axe. "You stay with Cordy?" he asked Wesley.
"We'll be along quickly," the Englishman answered, supporting the still groggy Cordelia on one arm, and grabbing a loaded crossbow with the other. Gunn took off following Angel.
"Wes, wait," muttered Cordelia, "Something's not right. Feels like that…" she hesitated, trying to remember, "Prio Motu thingie earlier this year." She was referring to a vision that the whole group had misinterpreted, almost resulting in the death of a pregnant woman and her child. Her very important child.
Wesley looked across the street, noticing the marquee on the front of the hotel.
"United Medical Association Conference on…" something triggered in his memory. Wesley still tried to keep up on happenings in the scientific world, something about this conference, and a Neanderthal….
"Oh, good lord! I've got to get to Angel!"
"Go!" Cordelia commanded, "I'll catch up."
Wesley took her at her word and ran across the street, narrowly missing getting hit by several cars in his haste to catch up with his comrades.
Angel, meanwhile, had rounded the corner of the alley and was greeted with the sight of a large, very large, …well, cave man throwing another large man, this one in a ragged trench coat, into a pile of trash at the end of the alley. There were also two others, a man and a woman, lying on the ground behind the creature, as though they had been knocked down forcefully. Obviously, the demon had attacked two of the hotel goers, probably in human form since it wore a tuxedo, which was now pretty trashed, and some unfortunate homeless guy got in the way.
"Okay, tall, dark and ugly." Angel said as he stepped forward, "Up to something a little tougher?"
"My dear fellow," the beast in front of him replied, "While I'm certain that seeing just the last few moments of this conflict has dictated that I am the antagonist, I assure you, sir, it is quite the opposite."
"…big words for a cave man…" Angel muttered, stepping in towards it some more.
Gunn came around the alley and saw the same thing as Angel. Realizing that Angel seemed to be ready to take on the demon, he skirted the edges of the alley until he reached the two people behind the beast.
"It's okay," he told the woman, a very attractive redhead ("no time to notice that right now, fool!" his mind told him.) "We're here to help…"
The woman took in the scenario very quickly, and said, "Then tell that idiot to stop posturing to Hank and watch his…."
Unfortunately, the warning came to late. What Angel had assumed from it's appearance to be a homeless man came back up the alley at full speed, and Gunn could now see the fangs and claws attached to a wild, almost inhuman, looking form.
"ANGEL!" he shouted, "Behind you!"
Angel started to turn as he heard a low growling coming from behind him, and then he yelled out in pain as he felt four clawed fingers digging deep into his back, and he felt himself being lifted up into the air.
"Thanks for distracting the doc fer me…" the man told Angel, "But now you're in my way." He tossed Angel effortlessly against the wall, where the vampire fell to the ground, unmoving. "Alright, McCoy, yer comin' with me…ARRGHH!"
This last was due to the sudden appearance of a crossbow bolt from his shoulder. He turned in the direction the bolt came from, where Wesley stood, knocking a second bolt into his weapon.
"Step away from Dr. McCoy, whatever you are," the Englishman stated with more certainty than he felt, "Unless you want another one of these."
"Lissen ta the mouse," came the reply, as the man simply pulled the bolt from his body. Wesley watched fascinated as the wound proceeded to heal itself. The man started to advance towards Wesley, when he felt a tingle in his mind. He spun towards Xavier and Jean. She had helped the Professor to a sitting position, and Xavier had recovered enough to attempt to stop the attack.
"That's enough, Sabretooth," the Professor stated.
"Back off, Baldy!" Sabretooth replied, tapping his forehead "I got something that stops yer mind games cold." He started advancing towards the Professor, "I'll take ya all on!"
And then he was flying backwards, at the wrong end of a scarlet beam of pure force. Sabretooth went crashing through the wall at the far end of the alley as all turned to the source of the beam. Scott stood there, putting his glasses back on, the ruby-quartz lenses dissipating the deadly force that his eyes projected.
Sabretooth recovered quickly, and re-evaluated his options. Deciding that he was outnumbered, he jumped to the fire escape of an adjacent building.
"This ain't over," he announced as he scrambled up to the roof and out of sight.
Seeing the threat was over, at least for the moment, Hank immediately ran over to examine Angel. He stopped cold as the vampire climbed back to his feet, in obvious pain, but far from the eviscerated mess McCoy was afraid he'd find.
"Remarkable," he commented, "Two such similar mutations in the same place."
"Mutation?" Angel asked shakily. The wounds were closing, but it would be a little bit before he'd completely recovered. Those claws went deep.
"Well," replied Hank, "I fail to see any other possible reason for your continued good health after that attack."
"Howabout he's already dead?" asked Cordelia, arriving on the scene.
Scott meanwhile had made his way over to Jean and the Professor, the later who was being helped into his wheelchair by a very embarrassed Gunn.
"You okay, Jean?" he asked.
"I'm fine," the redhead replied, "He took us completely by surprise. These people arrived after he'd knocked the Professor and I away from Hank."
"Are you alright, uh, Professor…?" asked Gunn, looking from Xavier to Scott to Jean to Hank to the hole in the wall at the end of the alley, and wondering just what had happened here. Angel was making his way towards them, with the cave man, (Hank, his mind said, the redhead called him Hank.) assisting him. Wesley and Cordelia had joined them, Wesley explaining to McCoy how he'd read of his appearance here.
"Charles Xavier, Mr. Gunn," the Professor replied. At Gunn's shocked expression, he added, "Your thoughts were very loud a few minutes ago, I couldn't help but overhear."
"My…thoughts," Gunn stammered.
"Yes, I think some explanations are in order, Mr. Gunn, I'd like you to meet Scott Summers and Dr. Jean Grey," Scott nodded sharply and Jean smiled at him. "The man your colleges…"
"The English one's Wesley, the gal's Cordelia, and the one nursing his left kidney, that's Angel." Gunn answered the unasked question.
"…is Dr. Henry McCoy." Xavier finished.
Angel had arrived during this last exchange, and his eyes flashed briefly to Scott as the later was introduced.
"Summers?" he thought, "Probably a coincidence."
"I think we have a lot to talk about, Professor," he said aloud, "But I don't think this is the place to do it."
"I agree," said Xavier, "Sabretooth isn't one to give up, and I don't particularly want to have to explain that hole to the local police."
"Our offices are near here," Wesley said, "We could go there…?"
"I'm not sure about this, Professor…" Scott started.
"Scott," the Professor replied, "I appreciate your concern, but trust me, we are safe with these people. Henry, I'd suggest that you come with us, I suspect that your room in this hotel is not safe for you right now."
"Absolutely, Professor," McCoy said. "Not to mention my overwhelming curiosity about our new comrades."
"Well, I'd suggest some take out," Cordelia said. "We still haven't had dinner."
"I could eat," commented Jean.
"I think Angel oughta pay," said Gunn. "I mean, he did start to take on the wrong guy."
Angel fixed a stare that could melt steel on his associate, and then grinned. "Okay, you got it." He reached into his jacket and pulled out his wallet. "Wesley," he said, "Why don't you and Cordy take my car and pick it up?" He handed some cash to Cordelia. "Gunn and I'll show our guests to the office?" He phrased it as a question, since Wesley was actually the head of Angel Investigations these days.
"That sounds like a wonderful idea." Wesley said.
Dinner had long since been served in Westchester, New York. At Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, the meal tonight had consisted of a lively Cajun feast, spicier than usual in both seasoning and atmosphere. Remy had taken advantage of the fact that the more…sensitive pallets were not here, and completely cut loose. The students loved it, Bobby Drake and John St. Alloysis kept trying to out macho each other on how hot they could take it. Everyone gave up quickly after Logan joined the game however.
After the dishes had been cleared, the group retired into the rec room to relax for the evening. Jubilee, Rouge, Kitty, Bobby and John immediately grabbed the couch and turned on the latest episode of "Friends", Remy and Logan each grabbed a beer and started a poker game in the far corner, Ororo found a comfortable chair and a good book, and the other students broke into small groups around board games or puzzles, some occasionally joining in front of the television, and a brave few tried sitting in on a hand or two of poker. These last very quickly discovered that between Remy and Logan, they were completely outmatched, and folded out. After a while, Logan lit up a cigar, and Remy followed suit with a cigarette.
Ororo immediately smelled the smoke, and without even looking up said "Boys, no smoking in the house, remember?"
"But, chere, le Professuir is gone for a week, neh? Is this not the time to bend the rules a bit?" Remy replied, turning on his charm.
"Yeah, darlin'" added Logan, "And One-Eye aint here ta give us the 'Settin' a bad example' speech he's so proud of either."
"Yes, but I am still here, and there is still no smoking in the house. You two can take them out to the back porch, can you not?"
"Well, 'Ro," commented Logan, turning his eyes back to the hand that Remy had delt him, "Looks ta me like it's our two to your one."
"Democracy in action, Stormy," commented Remy, tossing a chip to the center of the table.
Most of the students had started watching the exchange as soon as Logan's cigar was lit, the rest perked up their ears at this.
"Do not call me that…ridiculous name," was all that Ororo replied, but her eyes had already shifted from their normal deep blue to a complete white, and had Remy or Logan actually seen this, they would have guessed what was to follow.
With a speed that could not be believed, two small rain clouds formed in the room. One over each of the two smoker's heads, and as soon as they had formed, they cut loose with a miniature down pour.
"What the hell…?" cursed Logan, jumping to his feet.
"Ici?" cried Remy, pushing his chair back so fast he almost fell out of it.
"I told you, Remy," commented Ororo, her eyes now back to their normal blue as she brushed a stray white lock out of her face. "Looks to me as though your democracy has had a small coup." She smiled brightly, "But, the porch is still unclaimed."
"Whattaya think, Gumbo?" asked Logan.
"Oui," replied Remy, "I t'ink that'd be best." He gathered up the cards and chips while Logan procured them two more beers.
"The name, it fits though, chere," commented Remy, laying his hand on Ororo's shoulder as he walked pass her.
Ororo reached up and squeezed his hand without thought or hesitation as she commented "Perhaps, but I still find it less than inspiring." She was, however, still smiling as she said it. These two had a past between them, over two years gone. However, no one else at the school knew exactly what it involved. All knew however, that they were deeply committed to each other, and each would do anything for the other without question.
Remy paused for a moment before removing his hand from Ororo's shoulder, looking intently at her as she read. Then he knelt down by the side of her chair, and so softly that only she could hear commented "J'tadore, ma soeur."
Ororo turned and looked into his eyes, the smile fading momentarily as she wondered what had brought this comment out. She had never doubted Remy's regard for her, or his feelings. Why had he suddenly felt the need to call her "Sister" again after so long?
"J'taime, mon frere," she replied, then smiled again. He returned the smile, then stood and wandered off to join Logan the porch. He found the rugged man already had set up a table, opened their beer, and lit a cigar.
"Somethin' up, Cajun?" he asked.
"Why?" asked Remy, sorting this chips back out.
"Never heard you call 'Ro sister before. I know you two are tight, but that sort of comment usually means somethin' else."
"You speak French?" the Cajun asked.
"Canadian, remember?" Logan replied, "Gotta learn it to get by sometimes. And quit changin' the subject."
"Jus' a feelin'" Remy muttered, starting to shuffle, "Prob'ly nothin'. But feels like somethin' bad 'sbout to 'appen." He looked over at Logan.
"Well," the Canuk replied, "I'll keep an extra eye open." He took another drink, "Now deal."
