-1-
Bearing a food laden tray, Ororo walked quickly through a lesser used hallway of Xavier's mansion, over a floor that had been stripped to its first linoleum by thieves and never resurfaced. There simply was not the money. Cheap sod and carpeting had been lain in the high traffic areas in order to make the house more presentable, though in Ororo's opinion it was far from that.
Scott deserved more, his mourners deserved more. Though she went barefoot, Ororo had dressed in honor of the occasion: binding her neglected hair in a delicate silk net; the best of her remaining gold, gleaming and thick, at her fingers, wrists, ears, neck and ankle; gold embroidery worked into the collar, front-panel, and cuffs of the fine black dupioni draping her from neck to ankle. Despite the lightweight material she was flushed. Too many people in the mansion made for a type of heat Ororo could not abide. It had nothing to do with sun and earth. Everything to do with layered clothing, heavy shoes and the intrusive verbal slithering of too many voices pitched too loud.
Even Sunfire had come to pay eloquent respects.
Everyone asked after Jean.
She could hear music. Sean was playing Scott's favorites on a piano rented for the wake. She found herself smiling. As Scott had grown used to the new X-Men, her, Kurt, Peter, Proudstar, and Logan, he'd included himself in their gatherings in the common room.
He'd been so young. His hair parted severely on the side. Sitting in a wing chair, a book in his lap. His attention on Banshee's playing and the easy banter that Kurt and Sean did so well. His smile had been as rare as it had been charming, his song requests rarer still. How Scott had laughed when shyer Peter - of all people - had made a joke. What had little brother said? Something about Jean, and probabilities and telephone calls! When had they, the second of generation of X-Men, become a team? she wondered.
As Sean's playing surged into something unfamiliar, Ororo's pace slowed.
Once she and Scott had made one another lunch-- it had been a hazy summer day - and eaten it outdoors, by the banks of the stream Peter liked to sketch everyone by. They'd expected to meet Sean and the others in the common room later that evening, for something of a sing-a-long, but when they returned to the mansion no one was home. They made enough dinner for them all. Ate some of that. Cleared the plates, put away the unused place settings and had gone to the common room. Not much time had passed, but enough for them to realize that they had been left to their own devices. Nonplused, Scott had sat down at the piano bench and played his entire musical repertoire for her; 'Chopsticks' and 'Three Little Fishes' performed fast, slow, country, rock, and once with a jazzy flare that delighted her as much as it surprised him.
Ororo spared a glance down the hallway. Forge stood before the closed common room doors, his sleek head bowed, arms crossed across his expansive chest. Silver winked from the base of his ponytail.
Storm paused mid stride, her toe held for a fraction of a moment near her ankle, and resumed walking.
She hoped he would not hear her.
"Ororo."
She stopped. Turned.
He stood in the doorway, his hands at his sides. Gravely, Forge spoke. "My condolences."
Ororo nodded once.
"I'm sorry for your loss." Forge looked sincere. He frowned a little under her scrutiny.
Ororo shifted the tray's weight to her left hand, giving the right a rest. "I am sorry, too."
"Do you know where I could find Jean? I'd like to speak to her."
Ororo held the tray closer to her chest. "I am going to see her now, but she is not ready to receive visitors, Forge."
"Figured as much. You holding up okay?"
It was an odd question. She chose not to answer it.
Forge stepped closer to her, "Ororo, if you need anything, need to talk or-- I know this can't be easy for you."
"It is not, but-- I thank you. Jean is waiting."
Stepping closer, Forge inclined his head, inhaled gently. "Is that?"
"Chicken broth? An old Cheyenne recipe? Yes."
The last time Forge had smelled that broth he'd made it for her. She'd been dying. Withering from the inside out after he'd rescued her from drowning in the Mississippi. "Better you had let me die," she had told him. She'd lost her powers, the ability to fly because of a gun he'd created to help law enforcement officers bring mutant criminals down.
They never talked of it, but he'd saved her life twice, and had gone on to do it again, and again.
Forge had no intention of looking angry and beseeching, but his eyes were hungry and the air between them thickened with a familiar, weighty energy.
One moment he was staring into her unreadable face. Accusations and broken promises shadowing his black eyes. The next, the tray was pressed between them, Forge's hand, the whole one, buried to the wrist in the masses of Ororo's hair, massaging the back of her head.
As always, his grip was on the gentle side of demanding, but demanding all the same.
"Ororo."
She inhaled sharply. "Do not." Took an audible breath, and stepped back from him.
Extracting his hand Forge peered at her intently.
Ororo frowned at Forge's fleeting smile.
"The broth is getting cold," she said.
He bent, picked up her hair net and dropped it on the corner of her tray.
"Old habits," Forge said.
"You are excused," Ororo rejoined, brushing past him.
Her heart was still racing when she reached her attic suite.
Jean was wandering the greenhouse when Ororo found her, freshly showered; mostly wet hair bound in a ponytail. She'd put on dark pants and an even darker shirt and like Ororo's, her feet were bare. Even though she'd sat on Ororo's couch and express ordered black item of clothing after black item of clothing, she had taken the habit of borrowing clothing from everyone.
"You must eat," Ororo began without preamble.
"I should go down," Jean said peering at the nubby tan and brown underside of a fern, "greet the guests."
"There is no need to force yourself."
Jean's eyes were overbright in her drawn face. She'd lost her rose and gold tones, that bright almost olive earthiness to her color and for the first time in years her pale freckles stood out on her pallid skin. She wore silver earrings set with turquoise. Her lips were rouged with one of Ororo's lipsticks, a color that was a little off on her considering how dark it was, and how messy her trickling hair.
"Oh, there's a need, Ororo. Nobody loved him as much as I did, but this is as much for me as it is for them. And Charles insisted."
At that moment, Jean was lovelier than Ororo had ever seen her. She was a mask of herself. A doll.
"Is that food I smell?" Jean asked.
Ororo nodded. "And chocolate snacks for dessert. Warren's suggestion."
"Better give me some before I pass out."
"In my rooms?"
Jean gave Ororo an odd look, reached for a bowl of broth. "I like it out here fine. You could put a bed under here, put in another skylight." Jean tipped the bowl to her mouth and drank.
Ororo looked around, at the mulch and dirt spilling out of the beds and onto the worn floorboards. The light that filtered into the green house was corrupted by dust and grime, and the windows rattled in the panes ever so gently with a passing wind.
Truly, the place was on its way to becoming a shambles.
Jean sneezed.
"After a thorough cleaning, perhaps?" Ororo said.
Cradling the bowl in her fingertips Jean spoke to the floor. "Tell me, how did Scott survive?"
"I do not understand."
"The second time he thought I died. That Phoenix thing. How did he cope? How did he live without me," a bitter laugh, "even though he'd been living without me and hadn't noticed for how blasted long."
"Why do you ask?"
"I need to know how he did it. How he managed. Because if Scott could do it, then I can, too." Jean bent her head over her bowl of broth, tears dropping from her eyes and into the fragrant liquid. "I miss him."
Hiding, yes hiding, he was man enough to admit it, Bobby sank into a folding chair, and moved it over to the side so that the potted bamboo Betsy had bought for the non-festivities partially covered his face. Bobby gave himself a time-out. The leaves tickled his face and shoulder. Too many people he recognized. He was caught between happiness at seeing old friends and the messed up circumstances, boinging between, 'Hey! It's been a long time! How ya been?' and 'Fearless leader is dead.'
Bobby watched as Storm exited the room with a tray. She was probably carrying it off to Jean. He wished he had thought of it first. Not only was it be a nice gesture, but a great excuse to escape the hordes.
Bobby sighed, and went to get another drink. Raising his glass of liquor in a silent toast, he leaned against the bar. Leave it to Scott Summers to find a way to make the X-Men work like dogs even when he was no longer there to order them to do it. Scott just had to go and leave a good impression on zillions of people, forcing the X-Men to clean the house in anticipation of their arrival and then circulate among them. It wasn't easy, being an X-Man.
But the hardest part was not crying.
Bobby'd be going along just fine, saying all that was usual- yes, thank you, he'll be sorely missed, he was like a brother to me, hey, what's that? ha, made you look...until someone would say something really nice, just something profound and true and wonderful about Scott, and Bobby's chin would start quivering, and he would know that if he didn't excuse himself quickly he'd burst into tears and create a very embarrassing scene.
Of course, if girls burst into tears, it wasn't embarrassing at all. There were times he wished he was a girl. Then again, the last time he'd voiced that opinion, Rogue, had given him the oddest look.
Looking at the last few drops in his glass, Bobby briefly considered going up to talk to the Professor, who had lasted all of seven minutes, and then escaped-- neglecting his duties in an uncharacteristic way. The idea was quickly discarded, however. Charles Xavier was a great man, and he had an easy time giving, but he had extreme difficulty taking anything. Anything including sympathy.
Bobby finished of his drink, and reluctantly went to circulate some more.
He glimpsed Betsy's purple hair, shiny as a mylar ballon today, twirled at the base of her head in something complicated and kinda nice. She looked relaxed, almost happy, while she chatted with Hank, a rabbi and a priest. Hank was as wide as the three of his companions put together. The image-inducer hid his true form beneath that of a clean-cut, not so tall, yet extremely big man in the prime of his life. The rabbi was the tallest of the three. Betsy had her arm threaded through the priest's, and was patting his wide arm as he talked. Her head cleared his tonsured one by half a foot.
Grabbing a fistful of peanuts out of the dish and dropping them into his pocket, Bobby joined them.
"Scott Summers," said Father Omahony, his vowels swelling from an accent caught between Boston and Westchester, "was a very good and decent man. A most earnest young man."
"Huh," said Rabbi Rose thoughtfully, then chuckled quietly. His long calloused fingers stroked the underside of his jaw. "He walked to my house every Friday evening for nearly all of winter one year. My sons had told him that driving was the same as using fire."
Father Omahony grinned, "They told me the same thing."
"How well did you know Scott, Father?" Hank asked.
"Not very, I'm afraid. We had our talks. The first day we met he asked me, What do you think is the meaning of life?'"
"Me too," said Rabbi Rose. "And I think he took notes when I answered."
Father Omahony sighed, "Such a thoughtful young man. So driven."
"I think all that walking from Salem Center from my house was good for him," said Rabbi Rose.
And Hank shook his head. And Betsy, dipped her head thoughtfully, and said softly so that all four men could hear, "Scott was nothing if not precise."
"A good boy." said Father O'mahony.
"Who matured to be a fine man," added Rabbi Rose.
"I met his widow before they married," said Father Omahony. "After he and you too, Dr. McCoy, were believed dead in South America. Plane crash, wasn't it?"
Hank nodded.
"And at that time, Magneto was making such a stink of the humans v. mutants issue. The world would be a much darker place were it not for this school and its students," said Father Omahony.
"You are a blessing," said Rabbi Rose. "My niece, she is special," he wriggled his fingers by his eyes, "A brilliant artist. She sees in infrared." He wriggled his fingers again, "This was a difficult time for her and everyone in the family. Scott spoke to her and-- It is a good thing that you are doing here Miss Braddock, Dr. McCoy."
Betsy patted Father Omahony's arm, and smiled at Rabbi Rose. "Thank you."
Hank crossed his arms over his chest, and coughed.
Bobby pivoted on his heel and went out to the entryway, bending his head and pretending that he wasn't being flagged down. Once outside the room he shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at the phone on the hall table. Pursing his lips he turned on his heels and sauntered down the hall that lead to the common room.
Somebody was playing showtunes. Really old, really hokey, Annie Get Your Gun showtunes. Bobby started whistling along to Anything you can do.'
Jean and Scott used to have the craziest fights. He'd been such a claude, he hadn't known that spat equaled spark back then.
There was something in the hall.
Forge had his hands in Ororo's hair and they were about to kiss. Now, he had known that Storm was a woman. And he had known that she'd dated Forge. But Storm in the hallway, face tipped towards Forge, breathing heavy and deep enough for Bobby to hear at the end of the hall, rocked Bobby's already rattled world. He blinked, jerked his head twice fast and hard, cocked his head and squinted.
Forge tilted his head.
With one eye squinched narrower than the other, Bobby considered faking a loud cough.
Storm actually glared, and jerked away from Forge. Forge smirked. Smirked! And released her face. She stumbled backwards, straightened regally, and ducked through the doorway into the side-hall, the hem of her African-robe-thingy flapping behind her.
Forge stared after.
Bobby sighed, thinking that no matter what, Life, obviously, went on.
He cleared his throat and Forge looked towards him.
Bobby lowered his head, glancing Forge out of the corner of his eye as he walked past the bigger (Heck, everyone was bigger than him) man.
"Hey," Bobby said.
"Drake. Good to see you."
Bobby winced. He just wanted to talk to his dad. His very sick (but recovering) bigoted and insensitive dad.
"I mean--" Forge continued.
Bobby waved him off, shrugging, "Thanks. Uh, you too."
"I'm sorry about Scott."
"Yeah. Me, too. Jean, three. Hank and Warren, four and five. Thanks." Bobby answered and continued on his way.
He walked a few doors down until he couldn't hear piano anymore and opened the door into a room furnished with a red upholstered chaise lounge and a Tiffany lamp.
This room, at least, looked a little bit right in the mansion that had been hastily carpeted (and only partially) in the nastiest rough weave industrial days before the wake. Unbuttoning his jacket he dropped on the couch and reached for the phone. He punched numbers automatically. At the pick up he said breathlessly, "H'lo, mom?"
"Robert!" answered Maddie Drake, her sweet voice sympathetic and pleased. "How is everyone-- never mind. How are you?"
"It hurts, mom."
"I know, dear."
"No, mom, you don't. He was my brother." Bobby pressed the heel of his hand against his eye. "I wish you could be here."
"So do I."
"Not dad though. Boy. Some people showed up in spandex."
"He's complained about not being there to see that."
They laughed together, then Bobby asked, "Is Dad doing okay?"
"Sure is. Would you like to speak to him?"
"Yeah." Bobby turned on his side and brought his knees up to his chest. "I'll wait."
"Oh, and Bobby, before I put him on. Did your Uncle Elliot get a hold of you yet?"
"No."
"Oh, that's too bad. Well, he's got an interview with the IRS--"
"The IRS? What he do?"
"Well, he's being audited, dear. He's left messages for you over email. I wouldn't've said anything-"
Bobby groaned, "Oh, man. I did his taxes!"
"Which is why he wanted to talk to you."
"Ugh." Bobby sat up. "Tell Elliot not to worry. I'm on the job."
"You're so good. Let me get your father on the phone."
He was wondering what to say when his father voice came through on the line, "How are you, son?"
Bobby wrapped the cord around his finger in surprise.
"Not bad. Not good. I got a story for ya."
"What kind of story?"
Bobby took a deep breath, "A ninja, a priest, a rabbi and the Beast were a mutant terrorist's funeral..."
This is way inappropriate, Bobby thought, dipping his lips to touch her offered mouth. I'm an ass and I'm a fool.
I told you before, Emma replied telepathically, her mouth otherwise occupied, I'm partial to fools.
Her lips were softer than expected. Silky, no softer than that, plush velvet, fine hairs brushing over his lips, around then,tickling his skin and his nose and building an unbearable sensation until he was about to sneeze into the fur. Fur?
Gasping, Bobby woke up blind. Scrabbling backwards on his elbows. The telephone fell from his lap and hit the floor with clatter and discordant metallic clang.
The lights were on and Emma was standing next to the chaise, holding the fur lined collar of her coat in her hand. Her lips were tugged upwards at the corner in an appealing smirk, and her supple and shining white-blonde hair framed her face in a manner that Hank would have described as fetching.
She sighed then said, "You're awake. Finally." She was dressed exactly as she'd been in his dream-- an icicle grey suit with a skirt that almost reached her knees and hooker shoes. He hoped it had been a dream, only she was running her thumb over a patch of fur on the collar of her coat. Her other arm was crossed over her chest, and rested on her throat. Her coat dragged on the ground, part of it mounded over the toe of her shoes.
Emma's winter blue eyes glinted.
"You look great," Bobby said in a rush, cutting off a yawn.
Emma's mouth twitched. He knew that look, she was fighting a smile that was way wider than she wanted him to see.
"How long you been here?" he asked.
Emma merely smiled. "People are asking for you."
"Jean?" Bobby asked hopefully.
Emma shook her head. The hand around her neck loosened and her arm swung down as she looked about the room, revealing Cleavage. She folded her coat carefully and draped it over the back of the chaise lounge.
His expression was guarded and wary as he gripped the seat edge and swung his legs out over the floor. He bent forward and grabbed the phone and put it back on the hook.
He got up, brushed peanut shells from his jacket and lap. Emma sat down, settled herself in the corner and crossed her impeccable legs. He met her eyes after ascertaining that the neckline of her suit jacket really was way lower than it had to be. Her crossed leg began to swing and that strange look in her eyes became more and more deliberate. It was almost-- affectionate. But there was that curved pink-taupe dare below it and her patrician and tip-tilted nose.
"Emma?"
She crossed her hands over her lap, waiting.
Bobby sighed.
"You don't make anything easy, do you?" he asked.
Emma bit her lip.
"What?"
She significantly brushed her cheek with her index finger. Bobby wiped his hands over his face, dislodging peanut shell. Emma kicked her heels, tilting her head at him. His eyes fasted on the four-inch long see-through heels of her snakeskin shoes.
Your chiropracter must love you, Bobby thought, turning his back on her and walking to the door.
Her laughter was soft, and grudging but he heard it.
He put his hand to the brass doorknob and looked over his shoulder at her.
"Laying low until the actual burial?" Bobby asked.
Emma's foot stopped its swinging.
Sometimes Bobby knew Emma as well as she did him, and it had more to do with instinct and interest rather than telepathic possession and several degrees in psychology. He liked to think that sometimes it was the same for her.
"Jubilee needed to be here as soon as possible, which meant today," said Emma. "Considering recent events, I thought it unwise for her to come alone -"
"Thanks, Emma."
"--But this is a time for family and close friends."
"Thanks for lookin' out for Jubes." Bobby said. "Who's out there, you know?"
"Your close friends and some of their families."
Bobby opened the door anyway.
"Drake," Emma said from behind him. "I'll be here."
"I know," he mumbled, and then not to look completely hypocritical turned to face her completely. There was room on the chaise for three, including Emma's big white coat, and it was comfortable enough to sleep on and it had been a while since he and Emma had touched base. She might tease, but she didn't taunt-- much.
Emma glanced pointedly at the empty corner of the chaise.
A sheepish grin tugged at the corners of Bobby's mouth. Part of him really wanted to smile, but the rest of him was so tired all of a sudden. There was a blind spot dead center of his inner eye. He was pretty certain that he did have a lot he needed to get off his chest. He opened his mouth in partial hope that something coherent would come out. The word was, "Scott."
He felt a tickle in his nose and sniffed against it. He patted his pockets, grimacing. He sniffed again and found a dusty, flattened handkerchief.
"Y'know," Bobby said conversationally, "My mom's always told me to have one of these around." He turned his head, put the cottony material to his face and blew once, loudly. When he was done he said, "Maybe later we'll," he pointed a finger and waved it a little.
"I'll be here." Emma said.
"Thanks." Bobby answered, and left.