Cassandra's eyes opened once more, and stayed open, despite a squint as she adjusted to the light of the afternoon sun. The first thing she saw was the blue sky, free of any threats, dangers, or alien invaders. But the second—Magneto. He stood only three feet away. She eyed him over Logan's shoulder in a moment of silent confusion, before she was able to pry herself away from Logan's tight embrace. "Thought we lost you for a minute, kid," Logan breathed relief, though his bones still trembled.
She forced her lips into a small smile as she leaned back, bracing against the gravel on her palm. "And miss out on the victory party?" her voice was dull, worn, and tired. It sounded nothing like hers in her own ears. Movement in the corner of her right eye turned her head in a quick glance—but her eyes remained there as her shoulders tensed, preventing any attempt to look away. Loki. He sat on his knees at her side much like Logan.
But Loki was slightly hunched, bracing against his lap on a forearm. It would be hard to miss the minor cuts positioned at random on his face, the yellowing and slight bruising around them, and the deep gash across the bridge of his nose. Something tugged at her gut. A small twinge, an echo of guilt. Somehow, after all he'd done, she still felt sympathy—and it angered her. He appeared just as relieved as the others on the rooftop around, causing her eyebrows to knit.
"What the fuck is he doing here?" she spat the words, however quietly, aiming them at anyone but him.
Loki's eyes could not rise higher than her shoulder. Grief and pain—stronger than he'd felt in half his long lifetime—weighed them down, keeping them on the ground. But his chest ached, filled with a bittersweet longing, begging to see her face. To truly know she was alright. To save one last glance in the back of his mind—not only for safekeeping, but for punishment. He deserved whatever hatred, whatever vitriol he received, and much more.
He believed he deserved to sit with the knowledge of what he'd done, with the image of that hatred in her eyes burned into his mind for the rest of his life. What he'd done was unforgivable. And it was him that would be remembered as responsible. "He saved your life," Logan told Cassandra, a kind of contradiction unfathomable to his own thoughts.
Cassandra stared at Loki with features colored in confusion and disgust equally, though she knew it was more to keep an eye on him. To make sure he didn't weasel away and slip from their grasps. It was then that the roof trembled under the heels of Thor's boots, the god of thunder landing on the gravel a few feet away from them all. He started walking the second he was on treadable ground, and he didn't stop until he reached Loki.
Thor grabbed Loki by the upper arm and gave a hard yank, forcing him to his feet, pulling him away from Cassandra. His feet tripped over each other, stumbling to remain upright, but that did not bother Thor in the slightest. "Say your goodbyes, brother," Thor told him, his anger not as hidden as Cassandra's. "You won't be endangering this realm any further."
Cassandra finally forced her eyes away, focusing instead on pushing herself up to stand. It was better to keep her eyes somewhere else. Maybe, eventually, her mind would follow? Logan stood and offered her a hand, and she accepted it gratefully, allowing him to pull her up to her feet. She was slightly off balance, gripping Logan's hand a little tighter to stay steady. Kitty stepped closer, placing a hand on Cassandra's shoulder, alerting her of her presence.
When Cassandra turned her head to look, she could see the lingering worry, the overwhelming concern and relief fighting for the forefront in her eyes—and her chest twinged. "I'm okay," she said, her voice shakier than intended. And although Kitty nodded, her irises glistened. She moved forward and Cassandra turned to face her completely before being enveloped in a hug.
"Don't do that again," Kitty's muffled voice was quiet.
"I second that," Kurt added, edging closer. His voice pulled Cassandra's eyes up to see his face, the same distraught look contorting his features as did Kitty's. "You should never do that again."
Cassandra pulled away from Kitty, and Kitty sniffled, discreetly swiping once at her eye before stepping aside—but Cassandra couldn't help but notice it. "Well, I don't think any more aliens are going to invade the planet any time soon, so I shouldn't have to."
"Hey, guys, we have a man down," Bobby's voice came through the earpieces then, quick and panicked. "John's hurt really bad—I'm not sure if he's gonna make it."
"Where are you?" Scott questioned in reply.
Bobby answered, "East side of Stark Tower."
"I'm a few seconds out, just hold on."
Cassandra's eyes shot wide at the sound of John's name. Her lungs began to overwork, the back of her throat ablaze as the blood in her veins pumped faster. "John's here?" she spun on her heels, throwing the question as an accusatory dagger at Magneto, still standing at the edge of the roof. "He's hurt—why the fuck would you bring him here?"
Magneto only raised a brow. "He insisted on helping you, with or without my approval. I highly doubt he would've stayed even if I had tried to stop him."
She was fuming, anger turning into a burning rage in her chest the more the seconds ticked by, but she couldn't act on it as she felt the urge to. There was too much to do. Instead, she turned to Kurt. "Can you take me down there? Please?" Cassandra was still far too weak to be teleporting herself, she knew. It would only further worsen her current state, and then she would be of help to no one.
"Of course," Kurt nodded eagerly.
He didn't hesitate to close the space between them, wrapping his arms around her torso for the sake of transportation. Then, they were gone in a brief cloud of dark blue smoke. When they arrived on the street below, it all looked horrendous. Buildings destroyed, cars flipped over with some still burning after exploding, debris littering the roads. It had all the markings of a recent war zone—because, for a day, it was. Cassandra's eyes couldn't stop themselves from wandering, lingering on the destruction a moment before she could pull herself away.
Bobby was on his knees beside John, who leaned back against a pile of concrete chunks—rubble from a nearby building—with his hands pressed firmly to his torso. Even from feet away, the sheen on Bobby's gloves was visible. Jubilee, Blink, and Colossus stood aside the scene, Scott opposite Bobby on the ground to assess the situation. Cassandra pulled away from Kurt and walked quickly, crossing the short distance to get to them.
As her eyes settled on John's current state, her breathing worsened, chest constricting—and a lump was forming in her throat. "What happened, Bobby?" she questioned, as she came to stand at John's feet.
Though John was worse for wear, blood soaked through the bandages and clothing layers that covered his wounds, he was in fact conscious. He tilted back, he sighed heavily. "Nice to see you, too," he mumbled.
"He tore his stitches," Bobby answered Cassandra's question, but not before giving John an annoyed glance. "He's bleeding pretty bad, but he needs a hospital. He got shot in the shoulder with one of those blasters."
Cassandra's eyes rounded. "We can't take him to a hospital—they'll lock him up."
"Maybe that's what needs to happen?" Scott stood, turning to face Cassandra. She glared up at him, a heated stare that burned into his eyes even through the visor between them, but he continued. "Let's face it, Bobby's right. There's only so much we can do. We're not doctors. He's a killer, Cass. He needs to face punishment."
"He came to help us! Doesn't that count for something?" Cassandra's voice rose with frustration, and guilt. She knew, deep down, he hadn't come to help anyone but her. Why else would he have come? It was unlikely that his conscience had suddenly gotten the better of him. No, he came for her. He risked further injury and even death, for her. And she was not about to let Scott Summers play god.
Scott tilted his head, lips pulling thin as he exhaled heavily through his nose. Of course it counted. Coming to help them was a noble gesture, but there were a plethora of fairly recent crimes whose victims had not received justice with John still at large. Harboring him in their headquarters would be immoral—although, he considered, wouldn't leaving him to die be as well? The moment of silence, of thinking, was too long. Cassandra raised a hand to her earpiece, "Storm? We need you down here."
"I'm on my way," Storm replied, in her ear.
Cassandra's features hardened as she looked up at Scott with a shade of disdain that caused him to sigh. As she moved to pass him, their shoulders collided, forcing Scott to sidestep to keep his balance—but it was the least of her concern. She was too focused on John, the bleeding and injured man on the pile of rubble. "You're an idiot, you know that?" she questioned rhetorically, as she lowered herself to the concrete pile. As she leaned close to touch two fingers to his neck, checking his pulse, John wheezed a chuckle.
"Don't make me bring up all the dumb shit you did to help me out," he spoke quietly, his voice strained. "You know I'll do it. And it's gonna be longer than mine."
"I never got this close to dying," Cassandra tilted her head with a raised brow.
John's next laugh was drunken, delirious. "I guess I win."
Storm landed on the pavement a few feet away and started walking almost immediately, coming to Bobby's side. She crouched beside him to survey the damage done, to judge fixability, but was quick to nod. "We'll take him back to the mansion and do our best," she said, and Cassandra breathed a small sigh of relief. Then, Storm looked to Bobby and Kurt respectively, "Both of you come with me. We need to go quickly if he's going to have any chance."
Bobby nodded adamantly, hands still pressing against the torn stitches, covered in John's blood. Kurt took steps closer—close enough to reach—and Storm held up a hand for him to take. Cassandra pushed off the rubble to stand, shifting away as not to be caught up in the teleport with the others, but her eyes remained with John until he disappeared with them.
There wasn't truly time to process the odd contradiction of emotions his attempt at heroism brought her—yet she found herself mulling it over regardless. It slowed her mind, taking it away from the tasks at hand, and she remained still. However, it was only one on a list of many things threatening to seize her completely after the last few days. Was a slow brain the byproduct of being dead? Or, was it truly just her?
Scott took a deep breath before turning in her general direction, putting her in his peripheral. "You're done," he said, the words floating right through her ears, intangible amongst the inner chaos. "You've been through enough. Are you strong enough to travel?"
Her eyes remained on the dirtied, debris covered pavement, stuck there in thought as she willed her mouth to reply. "I'm not sure."
The vacancy in her voice turned his head fully in her direction. She looked almost in a trance, her features tired and slack and her gaze unfocused. No, she was not strong enough to travel—nor was she mentally capable. Scott took steps toward her. "Cass? You okay?" he questioned. Concern outweighed his confusion only slightly.
Cassandra opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. She lifted her eyes, unfocused still, in an attempt to regain her lost focus—and she saw him. He was a blur in the distance, a black speck amongst gray rubble and yellow taxi cabs. But she saw him, and her heart lurched. "Clint?" it was too quiet, blinking hard, willing herself to focus. Then, she was moving, taking steps toward the incoming speck as her hands raised to form a heartachingly familiar shape. "Clint?!"
The second was louder as she found her voice. Clint came into view when he passed a final pile of concrete debris and Cassandra absentmindedly moved faster. "Cass!" he called back, his pace quickening from a brisk walk to a jog to a run.
Relief burned the corners of her eyes, searing down her dirtied cheeks. They collided in the street with no regard for speed or force—their arms around each other's necks helped brace against the impact, supporting their uneasy balances. "They said you weren't breathing over the radio," Clint was out of breath, his chin over her shoulder. "I thought you were dead."
She wanted to hold on, to keep him close a moment longer, but Cassandra needed to make sure he heard her. So, she moved back a half step, enough to free her hands while his arms remained around her torso. "I was out for a second, but I'm okay. I promise," she spoke with a shade of shaken certainty.
He could tell by the way her lip quivered, the tremble of her hands. She was not okay. Not in the slightest. But she was alive and she was here—and that was a very important start. Then her eyes fell to the exposed skin of his arms. Small cuts littered the muscles there, with a few trailing up his shoulders. Her stomach contents sloshed. "What happened to you?" she questioned. She reached up a hand toward his neck, the pads of her still trembling fingers careful as they brushed over a nick.
"Landed on some glass," he explained, exhaling deeply. "They don't even hurt anymore. I'm okay."
"I'm gonna have to tell Laura."
Clint wrinkled his nose, before hanging his head with a small sigh. "Please don't."
Knuckles white as she gripped the strap of her duffel bag, she shifted weight between her feet to resist the urge to wring her hands. Every muscle in her body still ached, the ghost of a violent battle lingering as the destruction of the city—day after day reminding her of what she'd gained, and what she'd lost.
Her apartment was all but unsalvageable. She'd sifted through what she could, picked apart the remains of items she'd spent years collecting, curating a life all her own that now laid in ruins at her feet. There were saveable things here or there. A couple of astronomy books and poetry collections. A box of tea, the cardboard crushed but the tea bags still intact.
Then, fallen into the kitchen sink, a small succulent. It was the only plant in the entire apartment not destroyed. In her room, she could only harvest some essentials. A few clothes—disgust filling her chest as she stuffed that god forsaken button down into the bottom of her bag, somehow unscathed inside her half-crushed closet—and a phone charger beside her bed. In the nightstand drawer, a fairly untouched picture frame and a locket from her youth.
She harbored those things, her only possessions, inside her duffel bag. She scooped up the books and took them, despite their weight and inability to bend into the cramped space, and she rescued the kitchen succulent, and she left. There was nowhere else to go. Everywhere, televisions and newspapers were printing her face, her name. But she had no choice but to walk out of the city, her bicycle being among the casualties of her apartment. She walked past the street where she knew by heart Sandra's Flowers to be—now, the whole block was reduced to chunks of concrete and shards of glass.
There was no way to know if Sandra and Leigh were alright unless she called. Though, she knew by now they'd seen the news as well. They would know now Claire Brown, the florist, was never real. She was and always will be Cassandra Barton, the mutant. The previous fugitive, once a government prisoner, pardoned for crimes against the country. She would always be dangerous. Now, however, she was also a hero. A true hero. One whose act of heroism was not driven by greed or selfishness, but by desperation and humanity.
Seeing the flower shop destroyed was a sharp jolt of pain between the shoulders. But despite helping save New York City—and, potentially, the world—there was still an ever present anxiety, a fear below the skin that she would never be welcome. So, she kept walking. It was just her, an overly full duffel bag, and a potted plant until she finally made it out of the city. The sun was setting over the skyline when she saw him. Logan sat on his motorcycle as though it were a park bench, watching her as she approached along the side of the road.
"How'd you know where I was?" she asked, as she finally reached him.
Cassandra came to stand two feet from the end of the bike as Logan stood to his full height with a tired exhale. "You're a big softy. I knew you'd be coming back for your things," he answered, with a small and bittersweet smile. "Is that really it?"
She nodded a little, eyes lowering to the succulent in her left hand. "Just me and a fucking cactus."
Logan huffed a chuckle. "Ironic," he dryly quipped, earning an expression of saddened agreement. Then, he tipped his head in a gesture toward the motorcycle, "Want a ride?"
She gratefully accepted the offer, and then there she was. Standing in the foyer of Xavier's school with her duffel bag strap clutched tightly, shifting anxiously to distract herself—a pacifier for a lack of free hands. Logan had left her there to find Charles, to tell him she'd arrived, and she couldn't bring herself to travel any further inside. It had been forty-eight hours since the fight for New York ended, but it felt as though it had only been a few minutes. The atmosphere within the mansion had shifted.
Anxious anticipation swirled in the air, tension remaining like a thick cloud. There was a fear lingering on the faces that passed Cassandra in the foyer—on the adults, on the children, on everyone—and it was more than understandable. After the failed invasion, the majority of the world might see mutants in a positive light. But there was always violence in the minority that did not. Always a backlash, a retaliation. And it always ended with loss of mutant life.
Some might go so far as to say powered people only made the situation worse, what with their desperate attempt to save the planet broadcasted on television every moment of the days following. They didn't know what their own government was planning to do instead. All they could know was what they were allowed to. The X-Men knew that better than anyone else. They were often the scapegoat for government wrongdoings—and that wasn't about to change, even with a hero status.
They were waiting, all of them, for the other shoe to drop. Still, they were tired. So incredibly tired. Lori was barefoot, carrying Max in her arms when she appeared in the foyer, coming down the stairs. "Did you find everything important?" she asked, with a hopeful tone as she reached the bottom.
Cassandra's eyes fell once more to the plant in her hand, and sighed. "I guess."
"I'm so sorry," Lori looked at her sympathetically, coming to stand in front of her. "I can't imagine what you're going through. If you need anything, you know we'll be more than happy to help however we can."
Cassandra forced herself to swallow. The grip on her bag tightened just enough to burn, her fingernails digging into the skin of her palm. "Actually, I was hoping to stay a few days. If you guys have the space," she said, however quietly. It was almost a mumble, a murmur beneath her breath—a confession that swirled the contents of her stomach.
"Of course," Lori was quick to reply, eager not only to help, but to have her friend—no, family—back home. Her eyes darted left, to the faces of a group of students passing in the hall, and she lit up. "Bobby! I have to start a class. Can you show Cass to her room so she can get settled?"
When Cassandra looked, sure enough, Bobby was there. He stepped out of the crowd to come toward them in the foyer, and a man followed. The same height as Bobby, the man was dark-haired with a rich complexion. He came to stand beside Bobby and Cassandra found her eyes lingering with a subtle curiosity. "Wait—you're coming back?" Bobby questioned, a small gleam of hope threatening to shimmer in his pale blue irises.
"For a little while," Cassandra nodded, forcing herself to look to Bobby instead. "I'm not back on the team. I just need a place to stay."
Bobby understood her apprehension, though the rush of excitement filling his chest did not lessen. It didn't matter why she was there as much as the fact that she was there at all. He fought a smile as he bobbed his head, "Okay. Well, the professor kept your room untouched. Might be a little dusty but everything's there."
"Why didn't you guys repurpose it?" Cassandra's brow raised.
"I guess we just kinda hoped you'd come back, and you'd need it," Bobby answered, with a small shrug. It was simply worded, but the sentiment behind it ran deep. What he'd said was true. Charles remained hopeful that, at some point, she would find whatever she needed in order to return to the mansion whole again. She would need a room—and whenever that may be, he would have one ready. What better room was there than her own?
"I've gotta go," Lori said, readjusting her hold on Max. Then, she looked specifically at Cassandra, "I'll come find you later, okay?"
Cassandra nodded and Lori gave one last sympathetic smile before turning on her heels and disappearing into the hall. "What class is she teaching?" Cassandra asked, curiously, as she turned to Bobby.
"She works with the younger kids. Sometimes there's a lesson involved, but usually she's just giving them something to do. They seem to enjoy it," Bobby shrugged again. But then his eyes flickered left, to the man beside him, as though he'd just remembered he was there—and something unreadable flashed across his features. "Oh, sorry- Cass, this is my boyfriend, Romeo. Romeo, this is Cassandra Barton."
Romeo didn't hesitate to hold out his hand toward Cassandra, flashing a row of pearly teeth in a polite smile. "It's a pleasure. I've been looking forward to meeting you."
Though her features fell slack, eyebrows raising slightly with realization, Cassandra was quick to shake Romeo's hand. Her eyes flitted to Bobby instinctively as it all clicked. So much from their youth made sense now. She had wondered, however briefly, why he hadn't mentioned Rogue since reconnecting. As teens, even when he and Rogue weren't working very well, she was all he could talk about. Beside the surprise and realization, was happiness.
Bobby was being open with her in a way she could only dream of emulating. It tugged at the left side of her chest, pulling strings that had been numbed. Her arms itched, the urge to wrap them around Bobby's neck swelling within her, but she forced herself to still. Instead, she simply returned Romeo's polite smile and retracted her hand. "The pleasure's all mine," she held her succulent's pot with both hands, keeping the limbs busy. "I bet you've heard all kinds of crazy stories."
Romeo chuckled. "Just the fun ones."
"Well, uh, your room is this way," Bobby was quick to aim his thumbs at the stairs as he took slow steps in that direction, a guilty-as-sin smile pulling up the corners of his mouth, and Cassandra huffed an airy chuckle. "It's been a while, so just stay close to your tour guides and you won't get lost."
I couldn't if I tried, she wanted to quip. But she kept it to herself. Instead, she followed after Bobby had started up the stairs, Romeo only a few steps behind. They took to the stairs, climbing them to the second floor of the mansion. As they reached the top, they turned right, and began following the hall to the T at the end. It was a path familiar enough not to need a guide. Although, Cassandra could understand why Lori would assign one.
After all that had happened in the week prior—all that was still happening—leaving her alone would be irresponsible. She needed company, distraction, even if she couldn't admit it. Once they'd turned at the T, Romeo moved up beside Cassandra. "You like cactuses?" he asked it rhetorically, aiming to start a conversation.
"Succulents in general," Cassandra nodded, before glancing down at the plant in her hands. "I had a few of them at my apartment in the city. This one managed to survive the damage."
Romeo's features sloped empathetically. "I'm sorry about your apartment."
"Thanks. I didn't have much to start, so I didn't lose a whole lot."
"What about the flower shop?" Bobby twisted to see behind him, an eyebrow raised hopefully but curiously. "That was out of the way, wasn't it?"
Cassandra shook her head, and his face dropped. There wasn't much proof left in New York City that Claire Brown was ever there. Although, she wasn't sure just yet that it was a bad thing. Maybe uprooting, changing the scenery, was what she needed? Maybe getting out of the place she used to see Loki the most would help scrub him from her mind? Unfortunately for Cassandra, only time could truly tell. In the present, all she could do was her best to rebuild the most important structure damaged in the battle—herself.
