Disclaimer: it's really quite obvious I don't own x-men, as this if FAN FICTION. FAN. F.A.N. that's right, I've never come CLOSE to claiming i own x-men. Besides, x-men was in existence probably before I was born. So yeah. Not mine. Ok this is probably the last time I'll write a disclaimer for this story because somehow I don't think I'll be buying the X-men rights anymore, and if I did, I wouldn't be writing FANfiction about it. I'd be making movies ((insert cheesy grin))
A big thanks to the reviewers! Because there were such prompt responses - especially considering I haven't written anything in a very long time, here's another hit:
-Chapter 3- Prank Call
He leaned over the desk, staring intently at the computer screen and the open email it displayed. His brown eyes moved quickly as they read the small print. Then he fell heavily against the back of his chair, and put his hands to his face. These were the neatly manicured hands of an accountant, and his face was weak-featured and topped with a receding mop of black hair which seemed to fit his occupation.
"Dead..." A painful whisper escaped his lips, still hidden behind his palms.
He took his left hand away from his face and used it to search through the messy desk for the phone. He located it when the wedding band tapped against the plastic, the sound standing out clearly from the previous rufflings of paper. Hauling it out of the mess, he pushed at a preset number and held the receiver tensely against his ear.
"Hello?"
"Hi honey, it's me. Er, listen," he ran his right hand through his hair, pushing the sweat beading on his brow back. "I might be a little late home tonight. Something's come up. But I want you to be very careful, okay?"
"Why? What's happened?"
"Nothing, just... take care of yourself."
"Don't lie to me, Jimmy. What's going on?"
His wife sounded close to tears, and although he knew the truth would be no comfort for her, he couldn't lie to her when she was so upset. "Suzan and Mathew Coombs ... they're dead..."
There was a gasp, then a sob, and then an odd choking sound that he knew had nothing to do with shock or grief. Then nothing. Silence from the other line.
"Katie?"
More silence.
"Katie, answer me!"
The line went dead. He knew better than to try to call again – there would be no answer.
"Oh God, I've got to get home." The whisper of desperation escaped his lips as he disconnected the call and started another.
"911. Please state your emergency."
Something cold snicked through the air to stop at the trembling skin of his neck. It was knife, unsheathed and terribly clean. He saw it gleam, the thin line of light reflecting in the screen of the computer monitor. He could hear the deep breathing of his attacker, smell the booze on his breath, feel the stubble against his ear.
"Put down the phone."
Logan sniffed at the bottle doubtfully.
"You sure this is drinkable?"
His question was directed at Bobby Drake, who had come down to raid the kitchen at midnight in nought but his boxers and found the older man desperately searching for something to drink. Bobby sighed, digging a hole in his bowl of chocolate ice-cream before replying.
"It's only Pepsi."
"I don't trust inferior brands." The bottle lingered near his mouth before he put it down, having drunken nothing. "Nah, it's coke or nothing. Are you sure you there's nothing else to drink?"
"Positive. Unless your feelings towards flavoured milk have changed."
Logan sighed, and decided to put his life on the line and try this 'Pepsi'.
"Surprised you didn't spontaneously combust?" Bobby asked, a slightly teasing tone to his voice.
Logan grumbled, "It's got a funny after-taste. I'll probably get liver poisoning by morning."
"Right. Carbonated water and sugar. Fear it."
Sudden and sharp, the phone rang shrilly, cutting through the mansion's general silence. It hung on the kitchen wall, dark navy in colour. Logan and Bobby exchanged looks.
Bobby shrugged, and scooped out some more ice-cream. "Are you going to answer it?"
Logan did, greeting the person on the line with a gruff, suspecting "'ello?"
"Hello. Can I please speak to Charles Xavier?"
"No. It's quarter past one. Charles is unable to talk to you." His tone held his irritation.
"It's very important!"
"So call back early tomorrow."
"I need to talk to him now!"
"Try his private phone number then."
"He doesn't have one!"
"Oh, now that's a pity."
"Listen up, I need to talk to Charles Xavier right now. I'm aware of the time, damn it, do you think I'd be frantically calling in the middle of the freaking night if it wasn't very important?"
Logan leant against the wall, turning away from his younger mutant audience. His unusual hair stopped the glow from the kitchen light reaching his face, highlighting the shadows on stubbled cheeks and under heavy brows. His facial expression showed he didn't appreciate being yelled at.
The truth was, of the very few people Logan respected, Charles was one. And the professor had been more strained than lately – he needed all the sleep he could get. Logan was not about to run around the mansion with the sole purpose of waking him because some paranoid nut-job had suffered a nightmare and wanted some comfort. Besides, his Pepsi could go flat. Who knew what sort of shelf life this stuff had?
"So give me a message, and I'll pass it on," he growled.
"For fuck's sake, I need to talk to Charles, damn it! And I need to do so now! So put – him – ON!"
Logan was about to reply with something equally impolite – living rough can educate a language – when he felt the soothing presence of Xavier's telepathy seeping into his mind. It felt... well, you could say it felt like a calm, cool sea-breeze through your mind. One could only tell it was Charles thoughts and not your own if this sea-breeze sensation was recognized and registered.
It's okay, Logan, I'm up.
Oh yes, and the fact that he didn't speak in first person.
He snarled, an expression which fitted his face unusually well, and stormed out of the kitchen to find Charles, not caring to keep quiet. The thundering of his footsteps could be heard all over the mansion. A stunned Bobby Drake watched him go with a fair bit of curiosity, having heard only half of the exchange and not knowing of Charles' psychic intervention.
He shrugged, and casually froze the glass of chocolate milk next to him. It didn't taste exactly the same as the ice-cream he'd just polished off, but it was the next best thing.
AN: next time, on a very special Civil War...
We catch up with Bryony again... Charles takes a phone call (surprise, who could it be?) ... we see an old friend (possibly in diguise) and... well... cool stuff happens. Trust me. Bring a friend.
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