-4-
Ororo checked for drafts as she paced the hall, causing wind to blow outside the house and paying close attention to where it went.
The funeral had brought home how much the X-Men had really lost, but the funeral and wake had been an opportunity to regroup and reconnect - she wished. The sense of disappointment-- of failure-- had been palpable.
Ororo had seen surprise and disappointment in the eyes of those who had been children at the mansion: Rahne, Sam, Roberto, Jubilee who was not yet fully grown. They had been uncomfortable, their eyes casting about them in disbelief when they thought no one was looking.
Rahne, whom she was given to understand was no longer prone to crying, had refused to visit the former New Mutant's wing, and instead had gone to Ilyana's grave and wept. Tabitha had told Bobby and Bobby had told her.
Then Jean losing her telekinesis, and Betsy her telepathy, and two nights ago, while plastic forks chased tangy lettuce around plastic plates and ice-cubes clinked in the pitcher of iced-tea being passed from person to person around the dinner table, Jean announced her intention to leave for Alaska. Ororo had thought she had been making progress, that they had been making progress. Jean had tried to reassure her, but the fact remained that she was going up to Alaska and she didn't know when--or if-- she was coming back.
Ororo broke into a run down the empty hall and skidded to a stop in front of the nearest door. Opening it, she saw a familiar figure. Gambit on the porch, squatting on the boards and smoking a cigarette. It was reassuring.
Ororo stepped into the refreshingly cool outdoors, draped herself over his back and hugged him. His leather trench coat reeked of old smoke cigarette smoke and him. That was reassuring, too.
He took a final puff of his cigarette and flicked it over the side of the rail, lay his hands over her crossed arms.
"How she doin'?" he asked, his voice light and scratchy, but resonant.
Everyone asks after Jean, Ororo thought. "She left this morning but I know she is very unhappy. In truth, I do not know how she bears it, Remy."
"She probably don' either." He stood carefully, arching his back in the process until Ororo's feet dangled, then straightened so she was back on the ground. He turned in her arms and touched his nose to hers, "You ready t' leave dis place?"
"Not yet. Are you thinking of going?"
"De air be thick hereabouts. An' I got business."
She frowned. "What kind of business?"
"Business, business."
"Be careful."
Remy grinned, "Dere's no fun in dat, chere."
They linked elbows, stood face to face. "You take care, Stormy. Don't be turnin' into mopey mope Stormy-type One-eye cause he ain't here no more. Hear me, chere?"
She almost smiled. Not often did concern reduce Gambit to baby talk.
He kissed her between the eyes. Her hands settled on his waist.
"Be careful," she breathed.
"I be back real soon," he grinned, stepping backwards. He thought of asking her to give his regards to Rogue, but instead he placed another kiss on her forehead.
Alarmed, she hugged him tight, then grabbed onto his hand, "Remy, careful." He stepped away, dropped a kiss on her hand and with a jaunty wave vaulted over the porch railing.
And she resisted the urge to yell, 'Don't leave me!' after him.
Making her way to the Professor's office, Storm suddenly knew how the X-Mansion felt, with its empty halls, its neglected rooms, being fully aware of having done a long difficult job, and having done it well, yet with nothing to show for it. Nothing-- even less than it had started with.
No, that thought was unworthy of her. She had a lot more than she had started with. But still, with the funeral over, the mourners gone, many of the X-Men gone, and only the clutter and the emptiness left, she couldn't help but feel a little depressed.
Yawning, Bobby clambered down the front steps, skitted down the frosty lawn in sweats and his mother's yellow quilted house-slippers, and hopped onto the sidewalk before he could fall onto it. He hit a patch of ice and immediately landed on his bum.
"Yeeouch!" he shouted. His voice echoed in the empty street. Bouncing amont the modest, well-kept, single family homes hunkered behind the deep lawns slanting towards the wide street. There were no cars in the driveways-- most everyone having gone to work. Evergreens and thick-trunked maples rose into the crisp sky. Had anyone been at home, they would have come out to help him, he'd yelled so loud. It was that kind of neighborhood. The sun slanted through the thin cloud cover and the breeze carried the faint briny tang from the sound. Salt water, fresh water and frost, that was all he could smell, though it was garbage day. Empty cans, the lids fixed firmly on the bins, waited to be tugged back up the snow-spotted lawns and driveways and out of view.
This was the place Bobby had grown up in. This was his hometown.
"Welcome to Port Jefferson, Lon Guyland," he groused as he stood, rubbing his tush. "Lynching capital of the north shore."
He popped the trunk and glared at the boxes and bags crammed into it. He hoped his suit wasn't at the bottom of that pile-- but he wouldn't doubt it. He started unloading his car.
Ororo entered the Professor's office.
It was much barer than it used to be. The warmth had gone the way of the books, paintings and worn carpet, destroyed by Bastion's nanotechnology. Personally, she didn't know how the man tolerated spending such long periods of time in the place. It was stifling.
Storm sat down across from the Professor. He was giving her that Look again. The look that-- according to Kitten-- said that he was thinking something that she really should know about, but probably didn't want to know about. Like a psychiatrist who, the moment the session was over, was going to recommend to your family that they have you committed.
She had to excuse him for the unintentional affront, though. They were all on edge, they were all still in mourning, and the mansion was going to fall in on them any day now.
Charles leaned back in his chair, resting his hands on the desk and tenting his fingers. "How many X-Men are currently in the mansion?" he asked tiredly.
Storm scanned her mind. "The mansion is supporting nine currently, Professor, including ourselves. Most of the others have left for various reasons." Most of them very spurious.
"Ah." He rubbed his eyes.
"No-- eight. Gambit left this morning."
"What?" Charles' tired look vanished. "Gambit left?"
"He will be returning," Storm assured him.
His wakeful moment passed, and once again the Professor was sitting back, listless. Storm sat up straight but she was just as restless as he was. They both knew they should be doing something. No doubt, Storm reflected, he had those brief bouts of energy, too, when he'd tell himself he wouldn't give up, those moments when he felt he could do anything. They lasted about two minutes, though.
She could remember a time when those moments would last for days. Years. The better part of a lifetime.
And then it slipped away in a few seconds. A few crucial, fatal seconds.
"Let's do this later," said the Professor, rubbing his eyes again. They were words Storm had never heard before on his lips.
"Yes. The work does seem to be piling up. I had better attend to it." And there, words she had never thought to hear on her own lips.
The Professor nodded, Storm nodded. She rose and left.
The work was piling up.
Arms fisted forward, Rogue flew. Tears trailed from the corners of her eyes and 100 mile-per-hour winds tore at her face and hair. Faster and faster she flew by a mechanism that she barely understood. The sun had set seconds ago and fading, dying hot-pink and red runners of its light crawled feebly at the lengthening horizon.
"T-Minus 9 seconds to window," chirped Shadowcat, by way of the communicator prototype nestled in Rogue's ear.
"Darn-it!" replied Rogue, and attempted to increase her speed by piggybacking on a vertical wind.
Storm made it look easy. The wind and Rogue collided the way semis did. She jackknifed out of her arrow-straight posture and clamped her hand over her ear.
Free-fall.
Had she not been invulnerable her spine would have snapped, but she twisted with the movement.
"Rogue, you okay?" asked Kitty.
"Yeah" Rogue said, pulling out of the spin and squaring her shoulders. She laughed. "Updraft caught me by surprise," and arms back, left leg extended behind her, right leg bent at the knee, she resumed flight.
She punched through a wet cloud-bank. Water droplets diademed from the crown of her head and beaded her body. Her unstable-molecule catsuit of muted grays, blacks and blues, faded her into the dusk, but for a moment Rogue streaked mercury against the clouds.
The vertical wind quit eight miles up.
"Exiting the troposphere!" crowed Rogue.
"Roger," replied Shadowcat.
Without the winds it was smooth sailing and her deep breathing began. It ended with her taking the deepest breath before 9.8 meters per second squared was no longer a consideration because of Zero-G.
Sudden nausea took Rogue's stomach for a brief spin above her shoulder and around her ears and she was spinning above Earth in low orbit, her legs fetched up against her chest as she scanned above, below and around her for the Harrisblite satellite. Her auburn hair took on a blood-cast in space and the white stripe in it glimmered like diamonds under glass.
Rogue saw glints of what were probably satellites but not the one that looked 7-Zark-7's mutt cousin from the old kid's show.
'Only take you 3 minutes if you make the window,' Cat said, Rogue thought.
"Shadowcat?" she sub-vocalized. "Rogue to Shadowcat?" Making a rude face, Rogue pulled the communicator out of her ear. Fine cracks radiated through the plastic surface. The thing was broken. T-minus 8 seconds read her watch. Instead of flashing, the numbers were solid.
That was broken, too.
Whatinall? The satellite should've arrived by now or maybe--
Rogue ducked in time.
There was no sound in space, so the satellite antenna that snagged in a floating lock of Rogue's superhumanly strong hair gave no warning on approach.
"OW!" Rogue said, surprised and alarmed by being caught in a Harrisblite satellite antenna and immediately expelling her air supply. Water molecules froze and vaporized.
Rogue snapped the antenna in half and the satellite broke free of her. She bobbed over to it, grabbed hold of satellite body, crossed her legs around a fuselage and delicately pried open the access panel. She opened the Velcro tab of her black, fleece pullover vest and pinched out the trio of tiny transmitters Shadowcat had given her. She squeezed the silicon envelope off of one and pressed it amidst the neat bundles of colored wire and waited the three seconds for it to sprout connections like it was supposed to.
Four seconds later and it was still stuck amidst the wires.
Spit.
A vein began to pound in Rogue's neck. She remembered that she was supposed to subvocalize 'green' so Kitty could send the signal.
"Green," subvocalized Rogue.
No answer.
Rogue tapped the X-Com she'd fastened to her chest and opened her mouth to say, 'Yo, Cat.' But she'd gasped out the last of her air when she'd cried out. Shadowcat must've gotten the signal, because the transmitter sprouted connecting wires. Rogue tapped the access-panel shut. Rolling her eyes, she back-flipped away from the Harrisblite satellite and back into Earth's atmosphere.
Coming home, Rogue spied Kitty in Shadowcat costume, dashing towards the Blackbird.
Rogue jabbed her thumb and pinky-finger in her mouth and whistled, "FWEEEEET!"
Kitty looked up. "ROGUE! What happened up there?"
Rogue touched down. Her fists were clenched and she propped one on her hip, flipped open a Velcro pocket on her vest and pulled out three objects-- two transmitters and the cracked communicator prototype.
"The new communicators are crud, Cat, if what happened to your prototype is anything to go by. I think the cold killed it."
Kitty took the objects with a look of resolved disappointment.
"Stupid upworlders. Told you Mystique's whelp is indestructible," grated Marrow, also known as Sarah, from the jet's ramp-way. She'd poked her head out the Blackbird, having gripped the lip of the jet's underside hatch. Her still, rough voice complimented her appearance. The skin of her face was creased and lined by old scars fading in different stages. Three fresh outcroppings of bone, sleek with sclera, dotted her left cheek. Dried bone knobs knotted her scull and lank, bloodshot-red hair parted around them. A large bone growth warped her left shoulder. It would be useful as a bladed club when it finally popped. Her green-gold eyes blazed foxfire in the dusk, reflecting the Blackbird's running lights the way night animals' eyes would.
Peter tramped down from the ramp with a look of relief evident on his open face. He was six feet five inches of wheat-fed Siberian farmboy. His hair was the stuff of darkness and his eyes the deep, bright blue of summer night skies. His well-modulated voice carried, but it was as gentle as his body was large.
"We were very concerned when Katya said she could not reach you."
Marrow snorted.
Peter offered Marrow his hand. She batted it aside and flipped down on her own, graceful and sinewy as she landed in a crouch beside him. He smiled down at her, a lop-sided, melancholy sort of grin, and she rose to her feet. She cracked her neck, and vamped to the house. Her martial stride heavily involved her hips. As she passed between Kitty and Rogue she flung a head-set that went with the X-Coms at Rogue's feet.
"Thanks, Sarah!" called Rogue, her eyes dancing.
"Marrow," snarled the young women without looking back.
"Reminds me of me," said Rogue, dimpling.
"You were never that bad," Kitty replied.
Rogue stooped to pick up the head-set. Holding the broken communicator prototype to her eye and squinting, Kitty walked back to the house.
Peter transformed into his armored form, pushed shut the jet ramp, and began to tug the Blackbird into the hangar.
Rogue started after Kitty, but mid-way to catching up with her, turned to watch the way Peter's metallic skin reflected the sleek darkness of the Blackbird, the lush shadow of grass, the lights and the night...
Kitty descended the stairs to talk with Storm. "Hi, I just thought--" she began, but stopped as she reached the bottom of the staircase. Storm was nowhere in sight--no, there she was, beneath a bare light-bulb, lying in a pile of clothing recently emerged from the dryer.
"Hello!" Kitty called down. "Hello?"
"I am having a moment," said Ororo in a slightly aggrieved tone.
"Ah." said Kitty lightly.
Ororo sat up and picked a sock Kitty hoped was clean from her shoulder.
"I" --flash-bulb smile "--was working on the communicators, and got to wondering if you could use any help with...the laundry?"
"No, not really," replied Ororo, standing up and looking remorseful. "I should not have snapped at you."
Kitty shrugged, and crossed her arms atop the railing.
"I have come to the realization that you cannot run the washing machine without water."
"So...you're putting everything through the dryer instead?" Kitty asked.
Ororo sighed. "Perhaps I'm not getting enough sleep."
"I would have thought that with Jean gone you'd have more time to yourself."
"But no," said Storm.
"But no," echoed Kitty. "Maybe you need...hunh-- maybe you need talk to someone? Why don't you come outside and walk with me?"
"I could not possibly," said Storm, starting up the stairs. She tugged on one of Kitty's fat brown curls. "There is too much to be done,"
"Tell me about it," Kitty said, tilting her head and pulling her hair out of Storm's grasp. "Communicators, our intercom, and the Institute network's acting up. But enough about me, how about that walk?"
"I'd be driven insane by inactivity. House communications are below par?"
"And how. I called Forge. It's all we can do to get the microwaves not to set off the house alarms."
"Truly?"
Rolling her eyes, Kitty nodded. "I'm so glad Bishop's not here."
Storm shuddered. "And my concern has been house matters."
"Running water would be good. Especially since the port-a-pottys were picked up this morning. Which-- ha-- we may not have needed after all. Did you know that we've got a well?"
"Goddess. Perhaps I should start delegating tasks."
"That's a good idea," Kitty called after her. "Make Peter and Kurt do something messy! They're starting to get on my nerves..." Ororo was out of earshot now, and Kitty began to follow her, but then thought better of it. It was starting to get rather chilly upstairs, and the laundry looked very warm and inviting.
Kitty plunked down and curled up in it, muttering, "Walking involves activity."
Meanwhile, Storm went in search of someone, anyone, to do her bidding. They needed to collect their efforts if they wished to accomplish anything.
She found Rogue and Kurt with their heads together, discussing something in what would have once been easily identifiable as the living room. Rogue sat sideways on the chair with her legs slung over the arm. Kurt sat on the couch, his body twisted towards her. They both fell instantly quiet as she entered the room. Kurt's expressive tail was ominously straight.
"Hey, 'Ro. How're things goin'?" Rogue asked, sympathetically. Her eyes were wider than they should have been.
"They could be worse," Storm admitted, eyeing Kurt's tail. "I am calling a meeting. Where is Logan? For that matter, where is Marrow?" Her voice grew more impatient. "I have not seen that girl in the longest time!"
"You might note," Kurt said blandly, "that you haven't seen Piotr in just as long a time. The two went on an outing this morning and have yet to return." He picked a strand of auburn hair from his blue fuzz covered shoulder.
Ororo regarded them critically, and at last said, "Well, we will hold a meeting without those two then. Be in the War Room in a quarter hour."
Rogue and Kurt regarded her steadily. Kurt's pinpoint pupil, yellow eyes were especially searching.
"What is it, old friend?" Ororo asked.
"...and Forge?" asked Kurt, gently.
"What about Forge?"
"Whose gonna tell him to come ta the meeting?"
"Forge is here in the mansion?"
"Katzchen was to tell you--"
Tossing her head, Storm pronounced, "Either one of you can do it. I need to inform the Professor of the meeting."
She stormed off, either not noticing or choosing to ignore the look that Kurt and Rogue exchanged.
Fifteen minutes later, Rogue, Nightcrawler (Kurt), and Shadowcat (Kitty) were assembled punctually in the War Room. The Professor and Storm entered and, about ten minutes later, Wolverine arrived. No one reproached him for his lateness. It would have been a waste of breath and incentive for Wolverine to be even later for the next meeting.
Charles swept his lofty gaze around the room. "I was informed that Forge was in residence," he said to no one in particular.
Shadowcat gripped the edge of her seat with her hands and pointed the tips of her toes on the ground. "He went into the City to pick up repair materials." Her lips thinned into a straight line.
"The first and foremost concern is the financial," said Storm, in her usual soft yet sonorous tone. "We cannot hope to accomplish anything if we do not attend to the basic necessities of life."
"As in, runnin' water?" from Rogue.
"As in a TV," suggested Shadowcat.
"How do you intend to go about this?" interjected Nightcrawler, his finely drawn features skeptical.
"I'm afraid the financial is not my forte," admitted Storm. "A loan, perhaps?"
"How would we pay it back? We've gone through the last one," Nightcrawler replied.
"Why don't we all get jobs?" said Rogue brightly, who's brief stint as a member of the Brotherhood (of evil mutants) had prepared her for a successful career as a mercenary, celebrity bodyguard, or bouncer.
Wolverine, who's long career as a mercenary had him well provided for in any event, champed down on his unlit handrolled cigar.
"What?" Rogue asked of all faces turned on her.
"Regardless," the Professor broke in, "we have been neglecting training lately. This should not be allowed to happen." The last was said directly to Storm. She nodded.
Now Wolverine spoke up, for the first time. "We're too used to having money behind us, Chuck. Lots of folk do more than get by on a lot less than we have now."
Shadowcat scowled. "They don't have alien-tech based security or communication systems to keep up and running."
"Not to mention the grounds to maintain," added Nightcrawler.
"And dorms and classrooms, and licenses or a cafeteria, if we ever expand," said Rogue fetching a round of blank looks. "And if we get real desperate, 'Ro or Gumbo can always steal us some."
"I'm not even going to consider that idea in jest," said the Professor. "We have a duty to abide by the law, and maintain a good reputation, both in word and spirit."
"We do not need money for that," pointed out Nightcrawler.
"And our reputation's not much, anyway," added Rogue.
"And," said Shadowcat, "being known as the hygiene-challenged will really contribute to our reputation as upstanding citizens."
Silence.
"We seem to be arguing in circles," sighed Kurt.
They all sat for a moment.
"I trust in your ability to come upon a reasonable solution," said Professor Xavier, "so, if you'd excuse me, I have some letters to write."
The Professor disappeared out the door. After a moment of silence, Kitty raised her hand. "I vote we go with Logan's idea."
"What was your idea, old friend?" Ororo asked Logan.
"Go steal us some money, Storm." Kitty said.
"You know we cannot do that," Ororo sighed. "I am sure there is a simple answer to this difficulty."
"There always is," said Kurt, complacently.
"But at this moment in time," Kitty finished glumly, "none of us seems to care enough to find it." Least of all the Professor.
Rogue clapped her hands together, drawing all eyes to her. "How 'bout we make a list?"
Traffic on the way home was horrible. Main Street was packed with cars of people who'd driven out to the City for work and had gotten stuck on the way back in. For the life of him, Bobby couldn't remember why he'd driven out to the IRS appointment for his Uncle Elliot.
Elliot's business was crooked. Bobby hadn't known that, but after a day of listening to the internal revenue service grill Elliot, Bobby was sure. Apparently, someone else had known that Elliot's business wasn't on the up and up and had switched the cooked books Bobby was supposed to do the return on with the real ones.
Sheesh.
He told his father, William "Willie" Drake, as much when he got home. Willie, who was watching the fishing channel and was holding a fly reel in his hands, paused mid-cast and said, "Everything in that man's house fell off a truck; what do you mean you didn't know his business wasn't legit?"
His mother, Maddy, wasn't home-- obviously, and Dad had taken full advantage. The fish in the aquarium were looking very stressed as a result.
On the counter was a glass vase of two dozen yellow roses.
"Who sent the flowers, Dad?" Bobby asked.
"Dunno." William struggled with the line that was caught in the curtain behind the aquarium. "I didn't open the card. You wanna give me a hand with this hook and line before your mother gets home?"
Bobby helped his father unstick the fishing hook from the new living room curtains and took a shower. By the time he got out, Bobby's dad had put away his fishing line and there was little evidence that he'd been practicing in the living room. The fish still looked a little stressed, though. When Bobby walked in his father said, "Shhhh!" even though only the opening credits for This Old House were playing. In his hands, William cradled a model of a tool-shed.
Bobby sat down in the chair next to his father's.
"Son," said his father during a commercial break. "I have plans for this house. And I'd appreciate your help in executing them."
"You serious, Dad?"
"As a heart attack. The backyard's crying for a new deck."
'This Old House' came back on. The front door opened and Maddy Drake called for help with the groceries. Bobby leapt over the arm of the chair and the coffee table.
His mom wore a tracksuit and her hair was wind-mussed. Her cheek, when he kissed it, was cold though flushed.
"Did you walk all the way from the grocery store?" Bobby asked.
"Of course I did, dear," she replied.
"You're mother's a walking fiend!" William Drake yelled from the living room.
Bobby arched his eyebrows, helped bring in the groceries and went back to watching TV
"Oh, how nice," Maddy said when she saw the roses on the counter. Instead of going to them and opening the card, she began to put food away. She took out a package of Entenmanns chocolate chip cookies and set the box on the counter-top.
"Bobby dear," she called, laying her fingertips on the box of cookies. "Would you fix a plate of these for yourself and your father? Dinner's not until seven."
Bobby levered himself out of the La-Z-Boy went around to the kitchen to get out some plates. In the bustle of putting the groceries away and hooking up the slightly soft, tiny bit of salty-on-sweet cookies. He forgot to ask about the flowers.
Of course, his Mom had to go and forget something from the grocery store. Not that he could exactly blame her, now that he had forgotten, too. He strolled aimlessly down the grocery aisle, and tried to remember what his mom had asked him to pick up for her. She had told him to write it down, but he had assured her he could remember. It proved to be partially true; he could remember that it started with a 'P'.
Pickles. Pork. Pimientos.
His mom never used a grocery list anymore, and aside from forgetting to buy the mystical p-item, her ability to remember exactly what she needed for each carefully planned meal of the week was amazing. It bordered on a mutant power, in fact. But all of mom's uncanny abilities stemmed out of the necessities life placed on her. Conversely, Bobby's life stemmed out of the necessities his uncanny abilities placed on him.
Port. Peppermint. Parcheesi. Potatoes.
The woman had conformed to the world around her. Bobby's world had conformed to him. In the end, though, it all ended in human routine. In the end, you both forgot the same thing at the grocery store.
Peppercorn. Pandas. Potassium.
Damn it. There could only be so many P-items in a grocery store. If he checked on all of them, it would have to click eventually. Or he could just buy everything in the store that began with 'P'. He could just picture his mom's face. Hey, I spent a thousand or so dollars so I didn't have to make another trip. Hope you can find a use for it all.
Peas. Paltyrrhyne. Perimysium.
This was getting him nowhere. He was doomed to wander the grocery store forever, in search of...
Margarine.
She had wanted margarine.
He was only a few letters off, actually.
Bobby got some margarine, and went over to the checkout counter.
When he got home, his dad's car was gone. He picked up the plastic bag from the grocery, too large for its meager contents, though he had bought some Coke and a candybar, too, to make up for the facts.
The front door was unlocked since he had left it that way, unconcerned for his poor defenseless parents' safety. His dad probably had a gun secreted on his wheelchair, anyway. He had kicked off his shoes and started towards the kitchen when he heard an unfamiliar and rather, well, unnatural sound. His mom was giggling.
High-pitched, breathy, weird little giggles.
"...so naughty." he heard, and it didn't sound anything like it did when he'd been behaving badly as a kid.
He knew he shouldn't, but he didn't buy that mom walked everywhere, even to do the grocery shopping. She'd be gone from the house for hours at a time and he was suspicious. Using skills honed over many missions he snuck down the hall. As he scuffled quietly down the hall, he could see the upturned edge of Maddy Drake's too-blonde hair. She was leaning against the doorway, curling the telephone cord in her hand. "...a blue dress," she purred.
Traumatized by her tone of voice, Bobby pressed himself against the wall. His heart was beating too hard and he felt like he was going to puke.
"Oh, and an apron..." She giggled again.
"What kind?" That purr again. "Well," drawling, "white," breathy! "and very, very, frilly--"
Bobby broke into a run and started a slide, shouting at the top of his lungs, "HEY MOM!"
Maddy Drake whipped her head around to stare into the hall, and stepped back just in time to avoid having Bobby hit it with his shoulder. He jostled her arm as he coasted down the short hallway.
Maddy Drake shrieked and dropped the phone. Bobby slammed into the closet door. The house shook.
"Bobby," scowled his mother and picked up the dangling telephone. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkled. Very carefully Bobby noted her clothing. Her apron was bright red and embroidered with chickens. The dress she wore beneath it was blue. Not a single article of clothing he could see was white, and there wasn't a frill in sight.
Cradling his elbow Bobby piped, "Hi Mom! Where's Dad?"
She held the phone to her chest and pursed her lips. Tossing her head, "He went out."
"Dad went out by himself?! Without any help?"
"He's a grown man, Bobby. He can't sit at home all day long playing king of the remote, you know. It would do that old rascal good to go out and do something useful."
Bobby gaped at her. "Mom?"
She sniffed, "Don't you have things to sand?"
"After dinner."
She put the phone to her ear and made shooing motions with her hands.
He made beseeching eyes at his mom.
His mom turned her back on him.
He distinctly heard her say, "Call me later."
Bobby purposefully stomped to the refrigerator and flung it open with an exaggerated sweep of his arm. He put the Coke on the bottom shelf, pocketed the Snickers, and reached towards the place where they kept the margarine. Then he stopped, and said accusingly, "You already bought margarine!"
"No, dear. That's butter. But your father needs to watch his cholesterol, and I forgot to get margarine instead. Now, out."
Bobby closed the refrigerator and slunk out of the room with an angry dignity. And walked all the way down to the hall, and slunk on cat feet back to the kitchen doorway.
He heard the beep-beep-boop of her dialing a number. Rapidly.
"You there?" he heard his mother say in a breathy voice he would have never recognized as hers, not in a million, zillion, dog's years.
She giggled. "You're much more fun than he is, any day."
That's it. Bobby decided-- she's having an affair.
Jean extended her legs and stretched, and stretched. So this was the utopia so many men had strived vainly to see past the fabric partition. Leg room enough for everyone; cheerful, willing people attending to your every need; good-looking food and snazzy headphones for superior entertainment.
First class. It even smelled nicer.
Sure, the advertisements tried to pass it off as something called 'business class', but they weren't fooling anyone.
Jean felt a satisfying pang of pity for the poor saps cramped in coach.
Also known as 'economy'.
Honestly, who did they think they were kidding?
Stroking her hand down the ecru leather upholstered arm of her seat, Jean peered out the window at the patchwork ground below her. If she wanted, she could go to one of those little farmhouses that dotted the landscape and stay there forever, the mysterious yet friendly redhead who was good with the animals, or the mysterious stranger who was so improbable in melancholy demeanor and exotic appearance and presence she might be a character straight out of a romance novel; or the woman who haunted her house and her neighbors' minds like a wiser Boo Radley.
Or, instead of shrinking into oblivion, there was also infinity to be considered. Hurtling through the cosmos, planets in your grasp, the unspeakable ecstasy of being a part of the endlessness of the universe. Eternity. It had seemed like such a simple thing with Scott, and such a daunting thing without him. Now it was...but it didn't matter what it was, because it couldn't be.
The other compartments of her mind, the ones that held memories, and the ones that held the real future, were shut off for the moment, so she could finally savor all the possibilities. She had to run with them, if only in imagination, before the gates opened and the memories came after her, like some nightmare creature.
"Excuse me, miss."
Jean sat up straight and squinted at the flight attendant.
"The captain has turned on the fasten seat belt sign."
So this was why people were still searching for a utopia. There were people here, and they talked at you; not quite perfection, this. Jean made a noise in her throat fastened her seatbelt, and pushed the silver-tone button in the side of the chair arm before leaning back, back, back, and trying to regain her train of thought.
It was irretrievable, though. She looked down at her hands, now beating a tense, muffled rhythm on her thighs, and spoke softly to them, "I think that I'll end up back where I started no matter what I do."
Even with her telepathy shut off, she could still feel all their thoughts, clinging, begging, hopeful, afraid.
She could delay the inevitable, though. You could give a nightmare monster a run for its money. You could forget that they'd put an empty coffin in the chapel graveyard. She had appeared on Cable's arm at the memorial service. They sat in chairs in front of a very nice box and pretended that her husband was in it, then they trooped outside to bury it in the ground. And that was the last time they had all-- they being the people of the X-- that was the last time they were all together.
She leaned forward, way forward, in what began as a violent movement but smoothed out into one of calm certainty as she pulled her purse between her feet. She rummaged around in it a while, before pulling out her wallet. There were only a few small pictures in there - there were doubles of a few somewhere and the rest were not important. She stuffed them into the ashtray of the empty seat next to her. Then, rummaging through the rest of the purse, a few group photos. Some very old, but none very good. One was a little blurry and had a thumb in the corner, and in another Hank was shown to his advantage but no one else except the one or two X-Men who always photographed well. The others had no distinguishing qualities but the remarkable people contained in them. Jean slid them into the middle of one of those airline magazines, and stuffed it into the pocket behind the pamphlet that had the safety procedure.
Jean leaned back, resolving not to move for the rest of the flight. She stared out the window at the spots that she was fairly certain were farm houses. Her eyes were dry and hard, like the lines crossing her forehead.
Winter back home-- almost, but not quite cold enough, Bobby thought.
He stood in his parents' back yard, a strip of old terry-cloth bathrobe tied around his head. His faded jeans were more thread than whole and his tank-top was almost the color of the sky. His arms and shoulders gleamed with sweat under the weak morning sun.
He was digging a ditch, which was remarkable because the ground should have been very hard, almost frozen, because it was, of course, winter.
Bobby's father, William Drake, sat in his living room. The door was open, letting what should have been cool air inside the house. Bobby's powers were doing work double-time, softening the ground and keeping the cold out of the house, sort of.
Had the lady of the house been home, the door to the backyard would have been closed and Bobby wouldn't have been digging a ditch that she had almost forced her husband to concede was unnecessary.
William Drake had been brutally beaten by a group of bigots and was unable to walk as well as he used to as a result, but that wasn't why he was staring at Bobby while Bobby dug.
"You should bend your knees, more. You're not young enough to not do something permanent and ugly to your back," William called. He sat in a wheel-chair, a red and black plaid hunting cap on his head. His shoulders were hunched and a hunter orange-- virulent and aggressive-- fleece blanket was tucked around his legs. He held a green thermos in his mittens hands and he was scowling.
"Like this dad?" called Bobby, not adjusting his body a bit.
William Drake grumbled.
William Drake had decided to put in a pond and Bobby was helping him with the effort.
Bobby had gone to Builder's Square. While there, he'd succumbed to the call of a Hunter-orange Builder's Square T-shirt, Hunter-orange floating key-ring, and Hunter-orange water-bottle holder and had applied for credit cards for himself, his mother, Maddy, and his dad. He used his credit to buy BIG tools. Big, scientific. carpentry tools.
Most of which were piled in the living room on crumpled newspaper.
"Did I ever tell you about the time your grandfather and I put up a shed in your grandmother's backyard?"
"No, Dad."
"The only measuring tool we used was a two-dollar bill."
"I thought that was the shed up in cousin's James' yard."
Bobby's dad picked up the to-scale model of the gazebo there was absolutely no room in the backyard for. "The only measuring tool we used was a two-dollar bill. All you need is a straight edge and a good eye. Long as you got a good eye and-- I saw that! Measure twice, dig once!"
Maddy walked into the living room, wiping her hands on her apron. Bobby had been at it for hours, and could be seen from the window, trying to measure wood with mincing hand over hand motions, the way an inchworm would in slippery, metric only world. The measuring tape he held in his hand was his father's and weighed at least a quarter of a pound.
William Drake sighed. He had asked his son for help with the house, this was true, but while he had perfected the fine art of tormenting Bobby, but Bobby was so eager to please and so willing to make repairs and work on projects- his dad's way - that eventually he retreated to his living room to sulk. Now he just sat in the living room, and emitted mournful sighs.
"Willie, what is it?!"
"He's awfully busy..." said William Drake.
She sighed, somewhere between approval and dismay. It was good for boys to be put to work, but... "There's too much to be done around here," she said, "and I know the work has been piling up but I'm only one person..."
Her husband nodded again, stiffly.
"Oh dear," Maddy Drake said under her breath. She untied her apron, pulled it over her head. She slipped on her outdoor slippers, sitting by the door, and went outside to talk to her son. Outside, it was much warmer than she had expected.
"Bobby dear," his mother said laying her hand on his arm. "Goodness! You're cold. Your father appreciates what you're doing here, but," Maddy crossed her arms and shivered, "It makes me cold just to think about you walking around the house, installing things. And outside of the house, building things."
"Uh, did he send you out here?"
"No, no, he didn't. It's just that you're giving me pneumonia with that outfit!"
He was wearing a sweatshirt and jeans and had on ear-muffs.
"How 'bout I finish measuring this plank, and bring the rest of my stuff into the garage? Would you be happier if I worked there?"
Thinking that it would do for now, Maddy nodded. Bobby's measuring tape was upside down. He had his nose to it but at least he was holding it straight.
"And, dear?" she said in a hesitant voice that Bobby had learned to fear as a teenager. A facts-of-life, drug-education kind of tone. "I just want you to know that no matter what lifestyle choices you make, I still love you."
Bobby smiled relief that this was all she had to say. "Yeah, I know. If I thought you completely disapproved of it, I wouldn't be living the way I am."
Maddy's eyes widened slightly, and she said in a small voice, "Oh."
He tapped the metal tip of the tape dispenser against his nose thoughtfully. "For one thing, it's out-of-the-ordinary. Not something you exactly want to tell your gardening club buddies when your discussing what you're offspring have been up to lately. And it's dangerous, to boot."
"Dangerous?" interjected Maddy, eyes growing wider.
"Well, yeah, Mom. You knew that. I'd say being a superhero is about as dangerous as jobs can get. Uh, you okay, Mom?"
"Oh, dear. What I meant to say, Bobby, is if you have a love by the name of Lance or Geordi or even Piotr, I'm still your mother and I love you."
ZZZZZZZZOP! The measuring tape snapped into the dispenser.
"I'm not gay, Mom."
"But if you were, I am your mother and I want you to be happy and I want you to feel comfortable bringing your loves home."
Bobby looked over at the window, where his father feigned not to watch.
"You really didn't come out here because of dad?"
"Really, dear." She squeezed his arm and turned to go back inside.
"My dad has all these plans for improvements on the house--"
"And the inactivity is driving him crazy."
"Driving us crazy, too. There's models and blue-prints everywhere."
Warren chuckled.
Bobby sighed, "And Mom thinks I'm gay."
"I know."
"How do you know?"
"Warren and I talk all the time. Why, he just called the other day and-- he sent those roses, by the way."
"The yellow ones from two weeks ago?"
"Three weeks, dear. Why do you look so shocked? He'd come by to see how your father was doing, and had stayed for dinner."
"War?"
"We're friends, dear."
"Warren and Betsy came over for dinner?"
"Is she that nice young lady with a lovely English accent who's living with him?"
"You met Betsy? Betsy had dinner in this house? With Dad?
"What do you mean 'with Dad'? I live here, don't I?"
"Betsy and Warren?"
"Is Betsy that Chinee purple-haired girl we met that Thanksgiving, when Scotty Summers and Jean Grey got engaged?" Bobby's dad called over.
"I think her name is Betsy," replied Maddy.
Bobby nodded dumbly.
"No, she hasn't been over for dinner. She's never been able to come when he has."
"War?"
"He has the most beautiful manners, Bobby. I didn't think anyone sent flowers as a thank you for stuffed peppers and brisket. Close your mouth, dear, we're friends. As I was saying, Warren called the other day for you. He asked that you please call him back."
"I talked to Warren today!"
"See if you can't get him to bring that Chinee girlfriend of his, next time he comes over for dinner. Can't help what she is, but she's as good-looking going as she is coming, and that's something."
"Willie!"
"She's cuter than that Tanuki girl you were dating."
"TA. NA. KA." Bobby gritted.
"They related?"
"Opal Tanaka is Japanese, dear. Betsy Braddock is a citizen of the United Kingdom."
"Figures. That Tonaki girl was short and her fanny was as flat as her face, if you ask me."
"Willie!"
"Are you having an affair with my mom?"
Hank and Warren exchanged looks.
Warren said, "I've been meaning to tell you--"
Hank, "It's really that she's a lovely woman, Bobby, and if Warren hadn't snapped her up first -"
"Just call me 'dad'!"
"--because she's the cat's miao."
The joke was an old one, and the Hank-Warren double-team was very familiar to Bobby. Usually, Bobby did his best not to laugh. It was his mother's fault. She looked a lot better now than she did when he was kid. She'd gone from Bobby's mommy to Maddy Hayes over the course of a summer, right before he and Opal Tanaka became really serious-- back when Bobby had still been in X-Factor. He'd been upset and embarrassed by the transformation in his zaftig but diminutive mom. Through eating right and exercise, his comfortable, comforting, huggable mom looked nothing like the woman who used to peel frozen grapes for him when he was blue and clean up his sick when he was sick. She was slim and appallingly busty and very blond.
Blonder than Season 3 Buffy the Vampire Slayer. And very few of Bobby's friends could deal with it gracefully.
Once they had picked their mouths off the floor, Hank and Warren had run with it. The object of the game varied, but the most points were given for tricking Bobby into saying some variation of 'get off my mom!'
In which case, Hank might reply, "Robert! Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?" And Warren could gasp, and wheeze in precise outrage, "I. Love. Your. Mother. More importantly, I respect your mother. My God. Sharper than a serpent's tooth, Drake, is a disrespectful son."
Scott would sit with them at Billie's on Main Street, evil humor leaking past his red shades while he pretended not to enjoy Bobby's discomfort.
It was good to sit with Hank and Warren at Billie's 1890 Saloon, but Scott wasn't there to cut Hank and Warren's borderline bawdy humor by slamming his foot against the bench. Scott wasn't there with his chin in his hand, covering his mouth with the side of it when Bobby's outrage became particularly eloquent.
But Bobby asked, "Warren, are you having an affair with my mom?" with worry, and little darting glances at Hank. And Warren's forehead and blond hair made interlocking little puzzle pieces and sincerity washed out the mockery and he said, "No.
And Bobby sighed and leaned back in his chair before bouncing back up and alternating one-eyed stares at his two best friends.
"You," he said to Hank, "What's it like for you back at the mansion and how is life there and--" switched eyes, "You, tell me about you, Warren Worthington, and how long have you been eating dinners with my parents and how did you manage to eat my mother's brisket?"
Home. The word should have been like a caress, with the airy, dreamy opening, ho- and the closed, satisfied-- me at the end. A very fitting word, home. English was one of the few languages that differentiated between house and home. Which was why, in English, you could say poetic- but perfectly true-things about people being your home, a little bit of romanticism that other languages denied you. In French, for example, you had a house, or you could be chez yourself, but you couldn't just be home.
Kitty had most of her important people-- those that weren't dead or lost in the timestream-- chez elle, but the word home still seemed very cold and distant, seemed to no longer apply to the mansion.
Of course, these self-indulgent reflections were usually an indication it was time get the hell out of bed. Kitty rolled, willing herself out of bed, but instead toppled with the covers, and lay on the floor staring at the ceiling.
"Up," said a brisk, imperious voice. Kitty glanced towards her door, to see Storm standing there, hands on her hips.
"Do I have to?"
"It is nine o'clock."
Kitty moaned. "That's not late."
"You did ask me to wake you at nine."
"I meant eleven."
A pause, then softly but with a edged undertone, "You are brooding?"
Kitty sat up quickly. "No, no. Not at all. I'll get dressed."
Ororo sat on the bed, and Kitty thought she was going to stay to make sure that Kitty indeed got up and dressed, like she were some unruly child. But Storm rubbed her palm thoughtfully with her thumb, and said, "The others have been put to work, too. Rogue and Charles are working on a new training schedule." All her attention seemed suddenly focused on her palm. "I thought if I finally got everyone to work, it would improve the tone of the place but I think--" Her hands curled around each other, tightened, "Is it just me, Kitten, or is everyone very afraid?"
Kitty pulled out a pair of jeans. "Sad, yes. But afraid? Not that I've noticed."
"Surely you can feel it."
"Huh. I'm not quite sure I know what you mean," she admitted, pulling on her jeans, which had last been washed about a year ago. They were comfier that way.
"I do not know how to explain it better. It is not right, Kitten."
"I'd think not," agreed Kitty, slipping her bra on under her huge nightshirt.
Ororo looked despairingly at her, and shook her head slightly.
"Hey," said Kitty brightly, turning towards her closet and pulling off her shirt, "I hear Forge is courting you again." Storm blinked. "How's that going?"
"Ah... Better than my attempt to confide in you."
Kitty's head appeared above the black T-shirt she was slipping on, and she smiled at Ororo. "Aw, I'm sorry. I didn't realize I was playing confidante, 'Ro. I guess it's natural there should be fear in the air, all things considered. All you can do is not breathe in too deeply."
She sat down beside Storm, and hugged her. Storm put one hand to Kitty's shoulder, but otherwise remained unmoving. "The truth of the matter is, this isn't a happy time, and it's going to be that way for awhile. You can't do anything about that, 'Ro. I know you want to move heaven and earth to make everything work, but some things only time can do. As long as we X-Men stick together, we can get through this."
"Katherine, did you just recycle a sentence from every pep-talk you have ever been given?"
"Only a couple. Honestly, Storm, you can't worry so much."
Storm's eyes seemed to say, You wanna bet? But she smiled with her mouth. "'As long as we stick together?'"
"I just woke up, Storm," Kitty said, grinning to soften any edge. "Work with me here."
"And your work, how is that progressing?"
"About as well as yours," Kitty said and pointed at her water-stained ceiling.
"How felicitous," Ororo replied. Kitty snorted.
Ororo said, "You'll do your best. You always do."
Kitty put her cheeks in her hands and groaned. "A few nights ago, Rogue and I wrecked a million-dollar satellite."
"Did it belong to anyone we know?"
Kitty scrunched her face, nodding.
"Ah, well. I suppose there's nothing for it?"
Kitty shook her head.
"Hopefully they won't trace it back to us." To her and Kitty's surprise, Ororo kissed the younger woman on the cheek. Ororo stood. "I trust you to work your wizardry, Katherine." She drifted out of the room, and Kitty watched after her, once again feeling quite incapable of getting up, much less getting to work.
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