Title: None of the Above
By: Satine16
Disclaimer: None of the characters in this belong to me, they are all property of Marvel Comics. I am doing this for fun and not money so please don't sue me. The song Lorna sings is Man Who Sold the World by David Bowie. That is his property a.k.a. not mine either.
Chapter 4: A Quickened Pulse
It had been the same scenario for the last three nights. Oddly enough, it all felt incredibly real. First she was in labor, and the pain felt so authentic. The delivery room was a cheap ice cream parlor and the doctor at the end of the rusty table was Kenny Rogers. Just as the relief of the baby's departure overwhelmed her, the room always spun out of focus. Immediately after she was trapped in a sinking boat with the President, Bozo the Clown and a man in a Chicken Suit. They were all wearing scuba gear and giving her the thumbs up whilst the air was pressed out of her lungs. Frantically she would look for an escape, and she could never find one. No matter how many times she attempted to save her own life, she couldn't do it. The boat was made like something out of a children's book and had no logical rhyme or reason. There was no mechanical solution for survival. She would watch herself die, and then her three underwater companions would push her corpse out of a hatch at the end of the boat. As the boat continued to sink, she would watch her dead form float with a dozen or so decapitated Barbie dolls. They would all just hang there lifelessly, until the entire cast of characters from the book Where the Wild Things Are swam by and Kitty's eyes popped open.
"So much for taking it slow," Kitty thought as she nestled her vigilant form snugly into the crook of Peter's arm. It had been two weeks since the two had decided to reincarnate the love that seemed so recent, and at the same time, of another existence.
His steady breathing had once again become her lullaby, as the yellow light from the sunrise peaked through the thin curtains. Halfway between dreams and reality, Kitty felt every muscle in her body tense. She had been here before too many times. All the old questions were still unanswered. All the old mechanical errors still needed fixing. Nothing had really been resolved with their reunion.
Her tender imbalance woke her slumbering partner, and in a daze he mumbled, "Is everything alright, Katya?"
"Hmmm?" she asked a small tone of panic in her voice.
"What's wrong?"
"Bad dream. That's all it is. A bad dream."
"Don't worry. Whatever is after you will have to deal with me first," he muttered, the sleep still muddling his voice.
"If only I could sick you on Kenny Rogers, Piotr. If only…" Kitty smiled to herself and let the steady beating of Peter's heart play in her ear as she fell back to sleep.
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Bobby had found himself spending reckless amounts of time alone. Usually he could be noted as the most social and flirtatious guy in any room at any time. Lately he had found his comfort receding into himself. The days kept passing him by in ways that were anything but usual. The air seemed denser and the questions he found himself yearning to answer seemed to have evaded his grasp. He was helpless, speechless and found what little comfort he could when wrestling with the mess of his own thoughts.
He wandered through the mansion soaking in his surroundings that Saturday afternoon. He turned the corner and found a dorm room door propped open. There were two small pieces of luggage left in the hallway. They were old and weathered. Each had more than a few tickets, stickers and plastic labels from cross country and international flights. As he approached the room a girl's deep alto voice could be heard from within.
…Although I wasn't there
He said I was a friend
Which came as a surprise
I spoke into his eyes
I thought you died alone
A long, long time ago
Oh, no
Not me
We never lost control
You're face to face
With the Man Who Sold the World…
"You have an amazing voice," Bobby said from his perch in the doorway.
"And you have no business spying on me," she sat at the edge of her bed with her back to him. A beautiful acoustic guitar was resting in her lap and her magnificently green eyes caught his richly blue ones in the vanity mirror, which stood opposite the doorway.
"I'm sorry, I'll…"
"Don't," she stood from her perch, placed her guitar tenderly on the bed and walked over to him, firmly extending her hand. "I'm Lorna Dane. It's my first day."
"Bobby Drake."
"Nice to meet you, Bobby," she took him in completely. Like she was studying him. He wore a solid navy blue t-shirt underneath his blue and white striped, button down shirt. His hair was neatly styled, freshly cut and newly dyed. His blue jeans were distressed. The kind of distressed one buys for too much money. In two moments Lorna knew exactly what type of guy her visitor was.
Lorna, however, was a mystery to Bobby. For the first time in his life he felt completely lost in his introduction. Introductions were his specialty: make them laugh and make them want to see you again.
Her jeans were distressed and torn through ages of wear and her burgundy suede coat came from another era. There was a silver ring on each of her ten perfect fingers and a medallion around her neck, which cradled itself in the tender indentation of her collarbone. Through her pale t-shirt Bobby could see that she was wearing a black bra.
He carefully studied her face. Every feature was blindingly green in nature and equally as entrancing. Her lips were full and wide and were shaded that of green paint. It was as if she was wearing green lipstick, but the color was of her flesh. Her eyes were a miraculous shade of emerald: deep pools of green in which Bobby imagined it easy to drown himself. Her hair was wrapped in a sloppy up do with a large brown clip. In the light the tresses reflected every shade from evergreen to fluorescent lime. Even her eyelashes seemed to create a fringe of miraculous bottle green glow around the whites of her eyes.
"So, Bobby, did you need something?"
"No. I mean…I saw your luggage in the hall, and then I heard your voice…I just wanted to introduce myself."
"Next time, just F.Y.I., knock. Lurking in girls' doorways is creepy. Scratch that. Lurking in general is just creepy. But you are always welcome in…if you knock," her beautiful fringe fluttered as she winked her right eye. "Carry on then Bobby Drake. Keep movin' along."
Her voice was almost sickly sweet and yet there was a seeded danger, and sharp tone within. Bobby watched her for another moment, until she picked up her guitar again, and then continued his wandering.
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"Charles, you are not listening to me!" the anger in his voice erupted from the office and pierced the pacified air of the grounds. It was a rich and powerful voice: one that was often associated with power and a cruel incapability for mercy.
Eric Lensherr paced back and forth across the room, and Charles Xavier nestled himself behind his desk, calmly watching the overly agitated man in front of him. Eric wore a long grey trench coat and held an expensive fedora in his right hand. His long silver hair was unusually unkempt, and his generally serene and impenetrable stature radiated a nervous energy, which was contrary to every defining trait Eric ever had.
"Eric, I will not fulfill an execution order on the boy," Charles said, almost laughing, both at the request and his flustered friend. He had never seen Eric behave this way before.
"Charles, you don't understand! The boy must be eliminated immediately! I'm not asking for an execution, simply allow nature to take its course. Pull the life support your doctors placed him on. Allow him to perish as he would have in the woods."
"I am already overlooking the overwhelming evidence that the attacks trace back to you, my friend. Do not ask me to do more than look the other way. Besides, he's making an excellent recovery. It would be immoral to stop treating him."
"The recovery is the exact problem. Don't you see, fool!" Eric slammed him fist against the shiny desk top with a resounding thud. "You will regret this imprudence, Charles. You will see. The repercussions will be terrible, and you will see my point. Charles, you will regret this."
"Is that a threat, Eric? Or, maybe some simple words of advice? Like when you advised me to not to marry Moira? Or not to found a school? No, Eric, I don't believe I'll be taking your advice today, either."
"You do not understand, Charles. There is so much about that boy that evades you and your mind," for a moment his eyes stopped flaring and he turned to look his companion in the eye. "Old friend, please listen to me this time. There is so much you have yet to understand."
"Then explain it to me, Eric. I won't poke around to find your justification."
"I can't, Charles. I wish I could, but I can't."
"Then there is nothing for me to do. I cannot commit murder on the mere word of an esteemed associate. I won't cross that line."
"Fool! May you die clinging to your sanctimonious glory!"
Eric's final ferocious words hung in the air as the sleek, wooden door swung open and he stormed out. Waiting outside, a young man perched like a guard dog, with an unconvinced gaze, restless ears and a commanding constitution. Eric looked straight into his eyes on the way out of the room, and the boy never flinched. He just set his jaw against the cold steel of the older man's stare.
"Come in, Scott," the Professor spoke kindly from his desk, attempting to break the tension as Eric replaced his fedora on his head and exited the small room. The boy slowly turned his gaze and entered the room, closing the door politely and soundlessly behind him.
"Are you alright, Professor? Should I follow him?"
"No, Scott. That isn't necessary. Eric knows his way out of my office and out of the school just fine. In fact, I'd be surprised if anyone knew the path any better than he."
"I don't trust him."
"Eric poses no threat, Scott. Let him leave in peace."
The look of concern never fading from the boy's face, he sat on the large leather couch opposite the French windows. Charles slowly rolled around to the back of his desk, opening a small drawer at the top, and removing a thin yellowing envelope.
"How many years has it been since you first came to live with me, Scott?"
"Thirteen, sir."
Thirteen years, eight inches and sixty pounds of muscle. Scott certainly had changed from the frail, frightened boy he had once been. The boy, who, at the time that Charles had found him, could not even place a history, or family to his name, and could not want anything more from the world than those grounding things denied him.
And in return, Scott gripped the ideals Xavier had birthed with tenacity. Like a stray dog gripping a mere chicken bone, Scott had held onto the old man's dreams as a child, and enforced them now as an adult. Those who claimed Xavier was the rock on which his students crashed, like waves in the open ocean, never really understood. Scott was the rock. Xavier was of course a safe haven for his children. But he was the living embodiment of his dream. The children were the proof and the strength, Scott being the most prevalent example.
Running the thin envelope between his fingers, Xavier asked, "You were thirteen when you arrived, which made you sixteen when the young Miss Grey arrived, correct?"
"Yes, sir," Scott always paid dire attention to every word that Charles' spoke, "So you've been together…?"
"Eight years, Professor. Since I was eighteen and she was sixteen."
"When will you be asking her?"
"Tomorrow night, sir."
A small smile spread across Xavier's face, "Good luck, Scott. I know everything will work out splendidly."
"Thank you, sir," Scott smiled back brightly. "Was there something else you needed?"
Charles slipped the frail envelope back into his desk, locking the drawer with a small golden key.
"No. Just my very best wishes. Everything else is insignificant for now. You may leave, Scott. Get some rest, and relax. You'll be happier and enjoy it a little more, if you just relax."
"Thank you, sir. I'll try."
"Do you have the ring?"
"In my pocket, would you like to see it?"
"Of course."
Scott removed a small burgundy box from his front pants pocket, and opened the dainty case, placing it on the desk. "I'm always scared I'll break the box or lose the ring. They're both so small, and I'm so clumsy sometimes. My hands were shaking when I bought it."
"Like I said, Scott, relax," the Professor's rich voice poured out comfortingly as he lifted the ring into his hands. A simple diamond solitaire in a white gold band. A classic. "She'll love it."
"You think?" Scott's voice rang out hopeful, and the Professor noted the large distance his eyebrows traveled up his forehead.
"I know. Now, put it away. Jean is visiting me this afternoon as well, and the last thing we need is for her to see this before we want her to."
Scott slipped the small box in his pocket again, and turned to leave, "Are you sure you don't need anything else from me, Professor?"
Slipping the small gold key into his breast pocket, Charles softly said, "That's all for now, Scott. Close the door on your way out."
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It had been two weeks since they had returned from the bitter cold mission and recovered the boy's half destroyed body. Rogue couldn't explain it, but each day she came down to the infirmary, while Dr. McCoy was on his lunch break, to sit with the lifeless form of this nameless man. The only sounds were the labored efforts of his breathing: his lungs were being fed oxygen, but nonetheless they were now operating of their own accord. A noteworthy improvement from his original state. The oxygen mask was strapped to his healing face, and his once blood soaked bandages had been changed ten times over, now consisting of neatly wrapped, clean, white gauze.
Rogue perched herself on an office chair, she used the same one each time, which she rolled into the small hospital space. She held the New York Times crossword in her left hand and a pencil in her right. She nibbled the pencil eraser as she attempted to think of number 9 across. It was the 1997 Tony Award Winning Musical: seven letters. Her thick hair was tugged back into a sleek, straight ponytail resting high on her head. She was fresh faced and clean wearing old denim and a simple black t-shirt. Black gloves ran up her slender arms to her strong biceps. Her right leg was crossed over her left and her black PUMA sneaker moved back and forth as she jiggled her right foot nervously.
"Southern Magnolias," his voice was much deeper than Rogue had ever expected it to be. It was soft from lack of use, yet it abruptly disturbed the quiet, startling her and making her more than aware of her surroundings. He opened his eyes, and revealed another aspect Rogue had only ever been able to imagine. In this too, she was proven wrong. His left eye was a beautiful gemstone blue. A true shade of royal blue with flecks of navy towards the center. His right eye was a pale yellow green with streaks of gold.
"I've found that the smell of southern magnolias hovers at my bedside for one precious hour during the day, and then lingers, reminding me of its presence for a short while after," his voice though rusty seemed rich and yawning. Lethargic with a hint of intelligence. Rogue suddenly realized that she hadn't said anything yet. That and she was staring.
"Would you mind helping me into an upright position so we might have a proper conversation?"
"Oh! No! Not at all," she leapt up from her seat and slowly adjusted the bed to accommodate him, careful not to disrupt him.
"Can I ask your name?"
"Rogue," in her head her simple southern accent sounded trite as she spoke.
"Glad to finally meet you, Rogue. My name is Joseph," he spoke softly from beneath his oxygen mask, pausing before saying her name.
"Nice to meetcha, Joe."
He smirked at her, and glanced at the crossword sitting on her chair, "Where did you get stuck?"
"What makes ya think Ah'm stuck?" she said demurely.
He repeated, still smiling, "Where did you get stuck? I only want to help."
"Well, Ah mean, unless you know musicals…"
"Try me. Come on. I'm just trying to help you out."
Putting her hand on her hip and biting her bottom lip in frustration, Rogue cast her eyes back down at the chair, "1997 Tony Award Winner. Seven letters." Raising her eyebrows and grinning, Rogue looked back into his magnetic eyes.
"Titanic," he stared straight back into hers, never flinching. "You were the one that brought the beautiful sunflowers, correct?"
"What those?" she asked, trying to hide her shock that he knew the answer, and attempting to be nonchalant. "Yeah," she started to justify her reasoning, sitting back down in her chair. "Ah just figured…Ah mean, it's so cold down here. Why not add a little bit of sunshine?"
"I love them. They're beautiful," the words left his lips in a syrupy whisper. "They were the first things I caught glimpse of when I first opened my eyes in this place, and they are perfect. Thank you, Rogue."
"Don' mention it, Sugah," she tossed her hand, and blushed a little.
"Where do you get that amazing smell, though? I told myself I would ask, even if it is considered impolite. I feel I have to. That smell has been haunting me for two weeks."
"Louisiana Magnolias. Remy buys it for me. Claims it's somethin' special, and Ah like it."
"And Remy, is your…brother?"
"Not quite."
"Well, you're not wearing a wedding band, so can I assume boyfriend?"
"It's complicated."
"Isn't it always? And what does Remy think of our little visits?"
Rogue stared at the stitching on her shoe.
"He doesn't know? That certainly is complicated," he smiled a little bit wider, and laid his head to rest back on the pillow behind him.
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"Elizabeth, I'm truly sorry, but the fact is that right now I can't exactly tell you what's wrong."
"Henry, please!"
Betsy chased after Hank as he stirred his rapidly cooling cup of coffee and headed back down to the Med Lab after his lunch break. His crisp white lab coat fluttered behind him as he charged down the hallway, Betsy chasing him, inches from his heels. In one fluid motion he spun around to face her, not expecting his follower to be trailing so near. With one messy splash, steaming coffee spilled down his lab coat, and Hank let out a sigh of annoyance.
"Hank! I am so sorry!" Betsy yelped, placing her hands to her face.
"No, my dear, the coffee was terrible anyway. I made it myself. I don't want to make an educated guess right now and scare you. Guessing games will do no one any good. Both you and I need to work with facts. Facts that I don't have just yet. There are still blood tests to run. After that, I'll be happy to set up an appointment. I didn't spill on you, did I, my dear?"
"No, Henry, you didn't. Thank you for asking. Please, though. I know that the results may lead to something terrifying, or to nothing at all. I just need to feel something right now. I'm asking as a friend, Hank. Not as a patient. What do you think is going on?"
"I don't want to scare you, Elizabeth," his eyes and features softened with a tangible sadness.
"Maybe I need to be scared, Henry. I'd rather be scared of something, than the nothing I concoct in my mind. I refuse to be intimidated by phantoms of my imagination."
"I understand that, but I can't offer anything concrete right now."
"Please, Henry. Give me something. Anything." her voice began to quiver.
"All right, Elizabeth," he sighed in defeat. "Do not take this for fact, but it is my belief that the transformation you underwent through the technology and magic of The Hand is no longer sustaining you. The body they created for you is not that of Elizabeth Braddock, it is not meant to withstand the radiant energies the psyche she possessed. I feel that your body is giving out underneath the stress."
Crystal tears trickled down from the glazed eyes and over the high cheekbones of the scared little girl looking back at him. Wrapping his arm around her in a desperate attempt to comfort her from his own speculation, in what little way he could, he whispered, "Come by later this afternoon. We'll take a CAT Scan."
Betsy closed her eyes against the heat of Hank's chest. His arms were strong like her father's had once been, and inside them she didn't need to fear the rest of the world.
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It was late in the evening as Jean finished cleaning the remnants of the day's activities in the Danger Room. She bustled about the control room humming to herself, doing half the work telekinetically and the other half manually. A pair of tight fitting black yoga pants was slung low on her hips, and she wore a turquoise sports bra, having tossed her sweat soaked tank top aside after training. She wasn't really paying much attention to the world around her, and the decompression of the door scared her as it pierced her little bubble.
"Still up, Red?"
"Hi, Logan. I'm just getting some last minute cleaning done before hitting the showers and the bed."
"Scott waiting up for you?" he asked childishly.
"Logan…" her tone offered some warning. They were going to enter dangerous territory. Again.
"He just seems like the type that would wait up."
"He is. I love that about him," a small smile formed across her face.
"Or so you think."
Jean exhaled deeply and shot Logan a look of scolding, "I should really finish up here." She turned her back to him and began to clean up the final corner of the room. That was her first mistake.
In mere seconds he was centimeters behind her. She could feel the warmth of his breath on the back of her neck, prickling all of the little hairs from her ear to her collarbone.
"Fact is, Red, you don't know."
"Logan, please…"
She felt his hand slowly run up the outside of her leg. His palm came to rest firmly on her hipbone for a moment, before slinking its way back down her inner thigh. She closed her eyes against his touch.
Logan loved to catch her after a workout. She smelled like sweat and she smelled like Jean. There were no traces of Boy Scout left on her skin. Twirling a single curl from her long red ponytail in the fingers of his left hand, he felt her hands grip onto his torso. That was her second mistake.
Slowly, Logan trailed his nimble fingers up the sides of her lean form, stopping to cup her breasts, teasing them beneath the thin layer of fabric. He could hear her breathing change, and he could smell her arousal.
"Logan, please…Scott is waiting for me," those were the magic words. He dropped his hands, pissed off.
"Have it your way. Ya know where to find me, Darlin'," he walked away, her back still turned to him. "But I warn ya, Red, I'm not as polite as he is. I ain't gonna ask you if you're okay and I ain't gonna wait to come until after you're all done."