Title: None of the Above

by: Satine16

Disclaimer: None of the characters in this story belong to me, they are all property of Marvel comics. The song, My Skin, belongs to Natalie Merchant and her record company. I am not making any money, so please don't sue me.

Chapter 2: Gateways to Glass Houses

"What do you think of pink?"

"I hate it."

"On me, Jubes," Kitty held the pale hued sweater to her chest as she examined herself in the mirror. Her silver cell phone nestled in her neck. "You know, that's part of your problem, not everything is about you, and you just can't handle it."

"I resent that. When are you getting back anyway?"

"As soon as I find a sweater to wear to this party."

"A sweater…God Kitty, lighten up. You have a great body, use it!"

Dropping the bag from her left hand and correcting her posture, Kitty grabbed the phone with her hand and pushed the end button. Quickly releasing her grip and allowing the phone to fall into her Bloomingdale's bag, she pretended that she couldn't hear it ringing from underneath her new jeans. Allowing her eyes to roam over her body in the mirror, she wondered what existed beneath her tailored beige trench coat, black slacks and shiny boots. Her hair was still the same: brown, frosted lightly with gold tones, cut in layers to her shoulders, fringe cut to her eyebrows, always blown meticulously straight in the morning. And her face: thin dark eyeliner surrounding her entire, almond shaped eyes, not smoky, but carefully drawn; perfectly shaped eyebrows, not one hair out of place; and her lips, never once had they been a little less shiny, a little less pink. And those damn freckles. Using her forefinger, and middle finger she traced her right cheekbone, over her nose and around the left down her jaw to her chin. They'd faded in the last two years. They used to be darker. The bronzer must help hide them.

"Miss, will you be purchasing this sweater?"

"No thank you. Not today," her concentration had been broken with a start. Quickly she turned and walked out of the store, listening to the click of her black boots on the white tile as she left.

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"You are the one person who never knocks on my door Ms. Frost," a smug smile crossed Charles' face as he turned towards the door.

"I like to keep you on your toes, Charles," she stood in the doorway wearing a tight, white angora sweater and a pair of faded low-rise blue jeans. Her hair was pulled up half way, so that stray locks were allowed to fall into her face. Cocking her eyebrow, she smiled wickedly and chuckled softly, "So, what's new, Chuck?"

"Ah, I do forget how precious your time is, Emma. However, if you'd be so kind as to fit me in for a minute," he pointed to the chair at his desk, "there's something I'd like to ask you."

Emma sauntered over and sat facing Charles, her posture perfect, her expression curious, "Ask away Charles, I'm always eager," the smile broadening on her face.

"Dominic Falco is having an event. A fundraiser. I was wondering if you'd like to accompany me."

"I'd love to. I'll even buy a new dress," she added flipping her hair from her shoulder. "Is there anything else?"

"Not for now, Ms. Frost. You'll be sure to hear of anything if it evolves."

"I would hope so," carefully licking her lips, Emma rose from her seat and headed for the door. Turning back just in time to see Charles moving towards the window, "You won't be disappointed," she smiled brightly and left the room.

"I never believed it possible."

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"Henry? Hank? Where the devil?" Jean entered the lab to find it deserted, and the red messages light blinking of the machine. Hank never really left he med lab, it was too much of a hobby. So, why the messages? Slowly, Jean crept towards the answering machine and pushed the little blue button. A girl's voice pierced the stony silence.

"Hi, Doctor McCoy, it's Carly Price, from the bookstore. I hope you still remember me. I'm still dying to get together, whether it's for research or…socially. I'll try back. Bye."

"Oh my God, she sounded pretty young. Good for Hank," Jean thought to herself. Just then the loud ring of the phone pierced the re-settling quiet. In one bound, Jean was on top of it.

"Hello?"

"Umm…hello, is this Dr. Henry McCoy's residence, did I dial the right number?"

"Yes."

"Oh. Are you his…wife?"

"Oh! God no, business associate."

"Oh, ok. Well, this is Carly Price calling. I'm the young lady he met at the bookstore. I left him a message. Could you maybe have him call me back, or, rather, just tell him I called."

"Oh…everyone needs a little Devil's Advocate," Jean thought to herself. "What is this regarding, Carly?"

"Well…I was hoping we'd go for coffee. He and I."

"What time's good for you?" Jean asked grabbing the nearest notepad and pen.

"Tuesday at seven, Mother Earth coffee house," Carly's voice sounded freshly excited.

"Wonderful, I'll let him know where to meet you."

"Thank you. Can I ask to whom I'm speaking?"

"Dr. Grey, darling."

"Thank you, Dr. Grey."

"Don't worry about it, honey."

Just as Jean placed the phone back on its cradle, Henry walked in.

"Hank, you had a phone call."

"That girl again, I presume?"

"Yes."

"I hope you told her I was unavailable. Does she not understand that associating with me could bring about the end of her career?"

"She does. I spoke to her."

"She's adorable, Jean. You should have seen the way her eyes lit up when we met. She has the most amazing smile," Hank smiled off into space, and Jean smiled back. "Nevertheless, I can't see her again. What's that you're carrying?"

"A note from the Professor. He's meeting an official from the state government on Tuesday. Wants you to be there," she said quickly as she shoved the pen and pad into his hands.

"He's meeting a state official at Mother Earth?"

"The guy's twenty-two."

"I see. Thank you, Jean."

"You're very welcome Henry. I hope you'll be happy," the last few words left her lips softly as she left the room.

"What did you say, Jean?" but by the time he had turned around, she was already gone.

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The early spring sunshine glinted through the glass where they were lounging by the pool. The weather still didn't allow for swimming in the outdoor pool, so for now the indoor pool had to suffice. The clicking alerted everyone to her arrival. Jubilee sat in a neon bikini, playing with her sunglasses, watching her boyfriend do laps in the pool, and Peter sat next to her, smiling and lounging. His posture straightened when he heard the clicking. Jubilee snorted. Bobby just kept swimming.

"Hey, Jubes, so I didn't buy the sweater."

"Damn shame. You may have looked even more dowdy."

Kitty lost her breath and her train of thought at the sight of Peter, and stopped dead in her tracks. She hadn't even heard Jubilee's last stab.

"Hi, Peter."

"Hello, Katya," he smiled serenely, but his deep blue eyes carried so much sorrow as they rested upon her slender form and uncomfortable expression.

"I'll talk to you later, Jubes," Kitty spouted the words quickly and practically ran from the pool.

"No running in the pool, Missy," the senior lifeguard on duty for the P.E. class yelled after her.

"Проклятый идиот!" Peter grunted and placed his head in his hands hoping to press his eyeballs out with the heels. "No, this doesn't have to keep on like this. Yes, we ended sloppy, but…I'm following her."

"Pete!" Jubilee called after his fast moving form, but her cry was drowned out by the yell of the lifeguard.

Bobby stood in the shallow end of the pool, panting as the water trickled from his hair down his face and bare chest. All he could do was watch them go.

"Katya! Katya! Please?" Barely catching her as she headed up the stairs, she could no longer ignore Peter's cries.

"What is it Peter?"

"Why can't we at least try to be civil?"

"You want civility?"

"We can't keep voiding each other like this."

"Funny. I think it's working fine," and with that she turned to leave again.

"I miss you," he grabbed her by the arm, but as soon as she turned he let go and his eyes fell to the floor.

"Peter, things ended so badly," Kitty stated, her eyes growing sad.

"I know. I think about it everyday. Do you, I mean…do you ever think about me?" the words came out softly, and as they asked them, he once again raised his eyes to meet hers.

"I used to. But not anymore."

"Oh," his face became dejected and he turned to leave.

"Not because I don't want to," as she said this she reached out and took hold of his wrist, "Getting over this," pointing between the two of them, "was the hardest thing I've ever done. Thinking about you made me relive it. And if I think about you it hurts. I so I don't let myself do it."

"Oh."

"I'm going, Peter," and she turned to head up the stairs with her shopping bags.

"Wait! Katya, please listen. You wouldn't have said that if you didn't care anymore. I love you, Katya. Without you I can't finish the crossword puzzle. I miss that. Laying in bed with you, doing the crossword puzzle. I miss the way my sheets used to smell like oranges because you eat them in the morning. I miss the way my alarm clock would go off two hours early so that you could straighten your hair. Listen to me, Katya. Don't walk away this time," he called to her as she ascended the stairs. "I never stopped loving you. The last few months have been so hard. Do you see any second chance for us?"

Kitty bit her bottom lip and looked down at the man at the bottom of the stairs.

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"Somehow, we've done it Dr. Grey. Your disgusting amount of shoes and my tremendous amount of electronics all fits into the same teeny tiny room, and it's all topped off with our fancy new bedding," the soft glow of the new lamps reflected in his dark red glasses and bright white teeth.

Scott leaned in and kissed her. She always tasted like cherries and vanilla. Over time he had come to adore the way she looked in the morning, before shower, or her hair was done, or her make up on. Everything about her just seemed to fit with him.

As he kissed her he remembered the way her skin looked: porcelain white in the moonlight that used to poor in from the window over his bed. He had already noted the number of windows in their new residence. He couldn't wait to watch her glow.

Jean let him kiss her. He always smelled the same. He always tasted the same. He always kissed the same. Nevertheless the room was beautiful. On top of it all he was adorable. A very clear win-win situation. So what was that feeling in the pit of her stomach? Jean knew that she loved him, and knew that she wanted to be with him. The problem was unclear. Actually, there was no problem, only the lead sitting in the bottom of her stomach. The paintings had been hung, the closet organized, (2/3 hers, 1/3 his) and the beautiful flowers placed in their lovely vases.

Something, since the time that they had officially declared the merging of assets, had been bothering her. Something had given her a panic attack. She remembered collapsing on her office floor. Scott found her around dinnertime. She had told him that it was just a headache. He always believed her when she told him that it was a headache. Something about her intense power. She could never help thinking to herself that she was a grown woman, and could handle her damned powers by now. Why couldn't he see that? Since then she had ignored the feeling. Repressed it since the day he recovered her from the hardwood floor. She would continue to ignore it. Was there any other way?

Jean kissed him back. Tasted the way that he loved her, knowing that, no matter what, she loved him back. Knowing that he would give her his soul.

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Betsy got out of the shower in a steam filled bathroom, and stood naked in front of the mirror. Her dark hair hung in strips to her chest, and clung to her body. There was a pale glow of pink on her skin form the hot water. As she traced her fingers over her curves, she smiled and thought of Warren.

Silently and swiftly she padded over to her white bathrobe. Gingerly lifting it from the hook, she wrapped it snugly around her body. Quickly, she ran a towel over her hair, removing some of the moisture. Settling into her vanity chair, she placed her palm flat against the mirror and moved it in a slow circle, until she could see her face within the glass. Ever so slowly, she combed the knots from her thick dark hair, and gazed into the mirror awed by the look of the detangling, relaxing locks. She lost herself in the image. It was serene. The ways that each hair had wrapped around one another, and as the comb separated them, they settled quietly back to their place.

From the radio in the other room sang the soft, sweet, syrupy voice of Natalie Merchant:

Contempt loves the silence
It thrives in the dark
With fine winding tendrils
That strangle the heart
They say that promises
Sweeten the blow
But I don't need them
No, I don't need them
I've been treated so wrong
I've been treated so long
As if I'm becoming untouchable
I'm a slow dying flower
Frost killing hour
The sweet turning sour
And untouchable
O, I need
The darkness
The sweetness
The sadness
The weakness
I need this
I need
A lullaby
A kiss goodnight
Angel sweet
Love of my life
O, I need this

Is it dark enough?
Can you see me?
Do you want me?
Can you reach me?
Or I'm leaving
You better shut your mouth
Hold your breath
Kiss me now you'll catch my death
O, I mean it

Betsy slowly dragged her fingers over her lips and the soft tissue beneath her eyes. She looked older. Just allowing herself to graze the skin of her neck and upper chest she focused on the figure in the mirror. Leisurely, she lifted the round brush off the vanity on her left side. Shifting to the right she reached out her right arm, and as her fingers swept over the hairdryer everything in her world went black.

It happened in an instant. Everything went dark, and Betsy fell from her chair. She smacked her head against the tile floor, and stayed motionless. The white cotton robe draped over her unresponsive form, the music still softly playing in the next room. Her damp hair encircled her head, slightly turned to the left, like a dark halo against the bright tile. The brush she was clutching moments ago lay inches from her left hand and her right hand lay softly over her heart. From under the robe her legs were sprawled and bent at the knee. The small, pink vanity seat was turned over, and a small trickle of blood had started to run from underneath her limp form.

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"Do we have to have this argument again?"

"Chere…"

"No. NO, AH'M NOT GONNA STOP! Every damn night with this, Remy."

"Ah know that thin's haven't changed, Cherie, and it's 'cause you won't fuckin' let them. Ah'm not pushin', an' we don' go through this every night. Ah've brought it up twice in two years, and each time you have a fit."

The two argued their way through the house. Into the silence erupted their argument, and just as fast as the disturbance evolved, it disintegrated. The trail of shouting eventually led to the kitchen, where it stayed.

"Remy, what is there to change? If ya don' like the arrangement, get out of it."

At those words the grimace on his face softened and became suddenly sad.

"What are you so scared of, Chere?"

"I don'…"

"Wanna hurt me?" he placed a gloved finger to her lips and finished her sentence. "Ya not gon' hurt me."

Their faces were simple centimeters apart, and the noise quickly stopped as they took a moment to examine the other's expression. Rogue startled as he placed his hands on her hips, and lifted her to sit on the island. In one fluid motion, he pulled her towards him, separating her legs and fitting himself between them. Keeping eye contact, he removed his gloves and placed them behind her. His hands moved millimeters from her flesh, the heat emanating from his own. The warmth of his breath traveled up her thigh and abdomen, his face mere inches from her. The heat of his hands moved from her shoulder blades down to the small of her back, and lingered there, as his hot breath hovered above her chest. Swiftly, he moved his face to her collarbone and neck, and watched as his breath raised the hairs on her neck. Rogue closed her eyes and stopped watching his darting frame, allowing herself to simply absorb his steam. She felt his face move, could almost feel the brush of his rough stubble, and then softly she heard him whisper in her ear. His breath was warm, and his voice was deeper and rougher than usual.

"Ah'm not scared."

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"That was quite a night!" her voice rang in the empty room.

The main door to the foyer was opened, and the inky blue light from the night leaked in. Ororo was the first in the door. Her silver hair glistened in the moonlight, though the rest of her was hidden in shadow. Logan was close behind, closing the large oak door in time to see her sitting on the steps. The insipid moonlight continued to dance over her frame, enhancing her beauty, and betraying itself to ruin. She wore dark jeans and a leather corset. As they entered the house she had let her hair down, it fell around her shoulders, still carrying the waves from being held up all night. A broad smile formed as he sat next to her on the stairs.

They had just come from a local bar, where they had cleaned out the drunks of their money in a few games of pool. It was a nice racket, until Logan broke some inebriated man's hand for touching Ororo's butt. It practically launched a lynch mob but caused quite a few laughs between friends by the time they had gotten home. Needless to say they cleared out, with their winnings, rather quickly.

"I guess we can cross that place off our list," she said with a giggle.

"Sorry, darlin. Didn' mean to spoil your fun."

"I like to know you're looking out for me, Logan. I used to go with Scott, but then Jean came along. Then I started going with Remy, that's where I learned to gamble so well, but Rogue came along. And I was all alone until you walked in."

"But did those guys ever spoil you chances for a date?"

"A: That guy wanted a feel, not a date. B: No. But when I went with them I didn't mind going home with other guys."

Swiftly, she searched for his face in the shadows. What she found was a rather confused looking grimace.

"Go to bed, darlin'. You're drunk."

"I'm not drunk, Logan. I like coming home with you. Now I'm going to do something, and it's not because I'm drunk, and I hope you'll hold me responsible in the morning."

Gently she leaned in and kissed him. Her lips were soft and sweet, his ever prominent five o'clock shadow scraped against her. It started out slow, and charming, but quickly became worthy of the people engaged. His hands became entangled in her hair, and her hands were running over the firm muscles in his arms and chest. She shifted to sit on his lap. Straddling him, the rough fabric of their jeans created friction as her hips began to rock back and forth.

She pulled away from him, though. Looked down at his face, his lips now tinted with the remnants of her lipstick. He was dazed. She was pleased.

"Do you see me now, Logan? I've never gone home with any other guy."