Title: None of the Above
by: Satine16
Disclaimer: None of the characters in this story belong to me; they are property of MARVEL comics. I am not doing this for money so please do not sue me. The song Lorna sings is Wicked Game by Chris Issak, and I don't own that either. Again, please don't sue. Thanks!
Chapter 14: Free Fall
The morning sun spilled blissfully across the plush front room of the mansion. Ororo had nestled herself into a crook in Forge's arm as the pair sat laughing and attempting to complete the New York Times Sunday crossword.
Ororo's glistening hair ran down her back in a long plait. She wore a pair of old, battered blue jeans, and silver rings decorated three of her fingers. Her bare toes wiggled when she laughed. Next to her, Forge wore a pair of ivory linen slacks and a black t-shirt. His dark hair was in its usual ponytail, exposing the generous amounts of grey that had manifested near his temples. He wore a pair of square spectacles through which he needed to read the paper on his lap.
Logan stood silently in the doorway, watching them for only a moment. He had forgotten how sweetly she smelled; like the change in the air before a thunderstorm. The tinkling bells of her laughter rang out again, and he turned away from the image. She seemed happy.
Slowly and noiselessly, Logan made his way to the door. Feeling the weight of the heavy mahogany more than usual, he stepped out into the bright afternoon sun. A stout, red motorcycle sat sparkling in the long gravel driveway. Mounting the fast machine, Logan gave one last glance to the high hill on which Betsy was buried. A small, crooked smile crossed his face as he placed a sleek, black helmet on his head, hiding his face from view. With a large kick the machine roared to life and kicked up an enormous amount of gravel as it zoomed through the main gate.
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Hank had remained frozen in time for the last two hours. The pain in his temple throbbed with every pulse, and his finger nails drummed rhythmically on the desk in front of him. His eyes, unfocused, gazed off into a space he couldn't fully visualize. In front of him sat his small silver cell phone, daring him to do it.
For the fifth time he lifted it, unfolded it, and began to dial. As he dialed the weight on his chest began to lift magically away. Before entering the final number, he flipped it closed and flung it back onto the desk. The weight had come crashing down again, successively more intense with each attempt. With every thought of her the walls began to close in, but the fresh air was palpable.
Swallowing hard, Hank hit speed dial seven.
"Hello?" her voice was sweet on the other end.
"I miss you."
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The rain fell steadily outside, the gray clouds imposing upon what would otherwise be a perfect day. The inane chatter of the television continued in the background as Remy picked through his styrofoam takeout container. The beautiful, blonde weather girl in a navy suit was attempting to explain away the ill-timed rain clouds.
A sharp knock cut through her jabbering, and Remy stood from his perch on the bed, and tossed the remnants of his cheap dinner in the trash. Impatiently, the knock came again.
"Ah'm comin'," he hollered, rolling his eyes.
Opening the orange motel room door into the open veranda, Remy started to ask, "What do you…"
"Hiya, Swamp Rat," Rogue stood soaking wet before him. The rain ran down her leather coat and her hair lay flat, stuck to her soaking wet skin. The color had been drained from her face in the cold and her pale lips quivered slightly.
"Ah know. You don' really wanna see me. But, ya see…" she paused. "Betsy died. An' Ah love you. An' Ah really miss you. An' I needed to find ya, to tell ya that. Even if ya tell me ta go. Ah just needed to tell ya." Her muscles quivered and goose bumps formed on her skin as she rambled.
Remy remained still a moment, taking in her image as she fidgeted uncomfortably, attempting to run her shaking fingers through her matted, wet hair. Smirking, he dove towards her, wrapping his strong arms firmly around her waist and pulling her to his chest. Happily, she wrapped her arms around his neck and inhaled deeply, taking in his familiar, blissful scent. Keeping her close to him, Remy kicked closed the door to the room and carried her inside.
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"The High Dive would like to welcome back Ms. Lorna Dane. Give it up folks! We're really psyched to have her playing for us again tonight."
The girl announcing Lorna wore a denim mini skirt and lacy black top. Her magenta bob was styled with expensive styling wax and her ears, wrists, fingers and neck were adorned with a good deal of expensive jewelry.
The applause was loud as Lorna took her seat on a small stool in front of the microphone. Above her, a blue spotlight was shining down, illuminating her navy dress with an entirely new intense color and her pale skin with an almost eerie glow. Her green hair was tied back into a loose knot and her green eyes were lined with smoky grey shadow.
Looking out into the audience as she took her seat, she saw Alex's beaming face. He let loose a high pitched whistle as she took the microphone.
Her soft voice purred, "Thank you. The first song I'd like to sing for you tonight I just wrote last night. I hope you like it."
Placing her guitar in her lap, the first few notes of her song rang out, and the gentle tone in her voice was replaced with a rich, round alto sound. In a beautiful slow tempo she began to croon,
"The world was on fire, no one could save me but you.
It's strange what desire will make foolish people do.
I'd never dreamed that I's need somebody like you.
No, I don't wanna fall in love.
This world is always gonna break your heart."
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The steel beams worked their hardest to remain upright against the heavy blows from Peter's harder fists, but they continued to groan under the immense force. Breathing heavily, he continued to slug the sensor violently, the computer's output reading continually growing.
He ignored the sound of the compressed air as to door opened and closed. Kitty watched him, his glistening, godly frame wrought with grief and rage.
"Pete?" she spoke softly, almost fearfully, and took a wary step forward, her sneaker squeaking on the gym floor.
Slowly, he turned and the training program sighed in relief. He took in her clean image, her brown hair in its natural, loose waves around her shoulders, and her small, tortoise shell framed glasses resting neatly on her freckled nose. She looked vulnerable in front of him, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt, like a knight without armor.
"Peter?" her voice cracked slightly this time, a sob catching in her throat. He cast his glance toward the floor. Walking slowly, Kitty approached him, and extended her hand, letting her warm, thin fingers barely come to rest on the cool steel of his bare chest. Slowly, the metal faded away, and the intense heat of Peter's skin came pouring out toward her.
Peter stood motionless for a moment, watching as Kitty chewed her bottom lip vigorously. His eyes full of sadness and compassion, he placed his large hand against the delicate skin of her cheek and whispered, "Katya."
As he spoke, a shaking sob rattled her body and she began to cry. Painfully and violently, the moans shook through her body, the tears flowing freely now.
"Shhh," he quieted her, pulling her small frame close to his chest and embracing her. "Shhh, Katya. Everything's going to be alright."
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Warren glanced around his ornate bedroom for the last time. Though he had packed very few things, the room seemed oppressively empty as his eyes roamed over the beautiful wood and honey colored walls. At the edge of the room, near the doorway, his large black suitcase waited impatiently.
Slowly, he circled the room, running his fingers over the deep engravings in the headboard and armoire. Pulling open a small drawer, he removed a pale, gauzy sweater and froze. Stepping back carefully, he collapsed down onto the plush quilt on the edge of the bed. Warily, he held the tender fabric to his face and inhaled deeply. Silently, his shoulders shook and a few tears trickled down his face.
Regaining his composure with one deep breath, he folded the sweater neatly and placed it gently on the bed. In a few long strides his expensive suitcase was in his left hand and he was leaving the room. He bounded down the main stairs as if the pain captured in that bedroom was chasing him hungry for more.
Four graceful steps out the door and Warren's wings broke free from his t-shirt, his feet lifting effortlessly from the vivid lawn. The sun was bright and his form, a dark outline against it, was similar to that of foolish Icarus as he too attempted to escape what ailed him.
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The dining room table, though vast, seemed endlessly long to the two seated at either end this evening. The dim lights of the room glowed warmly and they sat still, holding each other's gaze across the table. Scott nursed his beer and the tea in the delicate china in front of Jean had gone cold an hour ago. To any witnesses, it would seem the pair sat in the midst of a loaded silence, however, a conversation roared beneath the surface.
"Scott…" she pleaded leaning heavily against the table.
"Jean, you can't ask me to make that kind of promise," he sat back, crossing his arms across his chest.
"And I'm not. I wouldn't," her face became indignant as she raised one eyebrow.
"Then what do you want, exactly," his brow furrowed in response.
"I just want to know…" she paused with trepidation. "I want to know if you would even be willing to reconsider. If the future might seem a little less closed book, now."
"I don't know if I can give you that," his eyes grew sad. "Frankly, I don't know if you deserve it," he finished off the last sips of his beer and placed the empty bottle on the table.
"Please, Scott…" Jean pursed her lips and focused, the sadness in her eyes fading slightly. Behind his opaque red glasses, she could see, his cold stare was becoming softer.
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Charles placed the clean manila envelope on the shining surface of the desk with a finite determination. Slowly, he crafted a carefully thought out letter in his tidy, sharply pointed script. The phone in his breast pocket began to vibrate as he came to the finish and he answered it calmly.
"Hello, Moira. Yes, I should be leaving for Muir Island in an hour or so. Yes, I think that would be a good place to begin. No, I understand. I'll see you shortly."
Licking the envelope gently, Charles sealed the note and left it atop the manila folder. Wheeling himself away from his desk, he shut off the lights and looked into his dark office one last time, hoping to burn the image in his mind. Soundlessly, he closed the door behind him.
The End
…Or is it?
Deep beneath the school, a pair of white leather boots pounded mercilessly against the steel floor. Swiftly, a white gloved hand pressed a tidy device to a panel in the wall and the door released with a whirr.
"Welcome, Professor," the gentle voice of the computer rang out and the door closed again.
"I'm in," Emma spoke into the small silver communicator on her ear. Her blonde hair flowed down around her shoulders, and she wore a thin, short, white silk dress underneath her long, white wool coat, which billowed behind her as she moved. Depressing a large panel in the wall, Emma exposed a large plate full of sleek, metal disks. Pulling a single disk from its slot, Emma placed the thin device inside her coat and pulled up the large fur lined hood.
"This is it, Shaw. This is the last bit we need. We've found the Phoenix."
…To Be Continued in Ash and Flame