Note: I adore everyone who has been sticking with this story despite lags in posting. Thank you all. And special thanks to those who have taken the time to write reviews and be so encouraging. The story is still progressing. It's far from dead. I'm working on chapter 24, which is another long one so is taking some time. But, I thought I should really get this one up.
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or world of X-men. All I own are my own words.
Chapter 23
By the time Ororo pulled into the lot at JFK her palms were sweaty. She couldn't figure out why she was nervous about meeting Charles' plane. She should be happy. She settled the Bentley into a space and took a moment to soak in the clear, pale morning in front of her. A few wisps of cloud painted the sky but the day would be sunny, perhaps one of the last as autumn began to bite the air. The children would return to Xavier's next week full of stories and excitement. It was one of Ororo's favorite times, and this year it would be sweeter when contrasted against all the drama and tragedy of the summer. She shouldn't be nervous. She should be elated. They'd faced their darkest hour and come through safe but for one casualty.
Was that it? Was she afraid the gift of Charles' return would be snatched away as Jean's had been? Hank used to call Ororo his crusader. She supposed she was that, but her faith had been tested with the most recent tragedies. Jean had come back as a monster. The government, on the verge of recognizing mutants weren't inherently evil, had chosen to not only authorize and encourage the gelding of mutant powers, but had turned that cure into a weapon. Ororo herself had faced her own weaknesses, her own insecurities. The life and cause she cherished was fragile. She'd never be able to think it otherwise again.
And perhaps she was stronger for that change in perspective. Even as she listed all the reasons to be afraid she remembered the reasons to rejoice. Scott had recovered and fought his way back to himself. Marie, who had seemed so weak at times, proved herself resilient and determined. Logan returned, and stayed. They fought Magneto and won. They defeated The Eater in Jean. They rescued Jimmy. And now Charles somehow, magically, resourcefully, had saved himself as well.
"His plane will not fall out of the sky. We won't have an accident on the way home," she told herself. "I'm being silly."
Sunlight flashed white off the windshields of cars all around her. All that cold light brought a quick memory of Jean's death in the snow and the beginning of all their disasters, but this time Ororo shook off the melancholy quickly. Her life, like the day, was getting brighter, not colder.
Her mind had fully calmed by the time she wound her way to the Terminal 4 baggage area. The groan of gears beneath the conveyer, the chatter in a dozen languages that surrounded her, further relaxed Ororo. This place, so full of contrasts -- the excited chaos of crowds made orderly by roped off lines and directional signs -- eased her. It felt familiar and safe. She'd been to this terminal a hundred times to pick up Charles from some overseas conference or vacation. She'd traveled herself often, to Kenya to see the birthplace she couldn't remember, to enjoy Europe with Hank. This noisy baggage area had always been the last stop before home. It was a good place.
She'd been a goddess, or so she was told. She didn't really remember it. She'd been too young. And a thief, she thought, remembering that portion of her reckless youth. Now she was teacher, a warrior. Hank's most recent departure came to mind, but strangely without pain. Perhaps she was finally past him the way she was past her childhood.
She smiled at that thought, then let her mind wander over questions she'd been avoiding since the call from Moira last night. She hadn't thought to ask about the particulars of Charles' resurrection. He'd vanished from the Grey house, leading her to believe his body was destroyed and that this resurrection would require a new form. But, she supposed he could have been teleported. Who knew what sort of powers Jean manifested in those final days? Moira had given no details. How different would he look? Would she recognize him as Charles? Would he still need his wheelchair or be hale and healthy of body now? She couldn't help grinning at the thought of Charles actually training with the team.
A portly businessman eyed her appreciatively as he dragged a heavy duffle off the belt. He must have thought she was smiling at him a moment ago. Ororo looked away to dissuade that notion. She usually found Charles waiting at the baggage area when she met him. This time, he wasn't there. Ororo checked her hand held and realized she'd misread the time and arrived early. She truly had been nervous.
Since she had the time, she checked email and phone messages. Hank had left two. One reminded her that there would be a new telepath coming to the school either later this afternoon or tomorrow morning. Ororo started to jot an email to the woman cancelling the visit. Now that Charles was returning, there would be no need for someone to help with Cerebro. Then, she paused. What if Charles didn't have his powers in this new body? She'd have to make sure before telling the new telepath to stay home.
The second message asked for Kurt's contact information. Ororo frowned. This wasn't the first time he'd asked if she could contact the teleporter. It wouldn't be the last time she lied and said no. The truth was, though she trusted Hank, she didn't trust the government he worked for. Hank wasn't suspicious enough.
She could contact Nightcrawler. She had, in fact, met him a couple of times since they parted company after the mission at Alkali Lake. The last time, in the spring, they'd eaten lunch together in New York. It would have been nice if that could have been in a restaurant. Instead, she'd bought hot dogs from a vendor and carried them to a dark corner of Central Park where Kurt wouldn't be noticed by passers-by.
There'd still been a spark there, when their hands touched passing the hot dogs. But, she hadn't been willing to pursue it. She'd been too hurt and angry, still not over Hank. And now? She allowed herself to consider the possibility and found herself thumbing down to the cell phone number Kurt had given her. Maybe --
"Ororo." Moira's brogue was unmistakable in the sea of accents.
Turning, Ororo saw the woman herself, slim and professional as ever, but holding herself with an odd stiffness. Moira was pushing Charles' wheelchair and Ororo felt a stab of sorrow that his condition had not improved.
But it has, his mental voice filled her. The sense of him felt both foreign and familiar. This body will walk and run. But it is weak now from being too long in bed. I need to develop it.
She let herself really look at him. It was Charles, and yet it wasn't. A full head of graying blond hair and neatly trimmed beard were only the most striking changes. His face appeared leaner, but that could have been part of a generalgauntness that made her think the body had recently recovered from disease. His new features, strangely, were similar enough to those she'd known for years that she might have mistaken this man for Charles if she passed him on the street. And the eyes were pure Charles, alert, probing, and almost the same hazel shade as before.
"It's good to see you again," she said, and bent to give him the sort of loose embrace he'd always tolerated from her. His right hand curled around her ribs and patted her lightly, twice on the back. The touch felt familiar, normal.
"It's good to see you too, Ororo." The voice, also, sounded more Charles than not. The register had lowered a tone or so, but the cadence and phrasing was all Charles. He really was back. Relief infused her whole body.
"We should get to the car," Moira said. Her demeanor put Ororo back on guard. Why was Moira so stiff? She wasn't merely professionally cool. She was -- Ororo straightened and studied the woman. Moira's gaze tracked her movement. She was robotic.
She's tired, Charles thoughts intruded again. It was a long flight. And she's worried about my condition.
Of course she is, Ororo thought back. She knew her mental tone was skeptical. Why was Charles reading her mind at this moment? Why was he probing what she thought of Moira? Of anything?
Charles called a porter over and paid him to retrieve their bags. The gestures, the polite authority of his instructions all reminded Ororo that this was her mentor and friend, someone she should trust absolutely. But, the intrusion into her casual thoughts continued to disturb her. Trivial scanning of a person's thoughts went against everything Charles taught her. His stealing of this body, so like and yet clearly not his own, troubled her as well now that she really thought about it. Whoever had owned the body before must have been alive when Charles' spirit possessed it. Had he killed the prior owner? Or merely subjugated him? Would Charles do either? The whole process reminded her, uncomfortably, of Jean.
No. Not Jean. The other. The Eater of Souls.
The image of a dimly lit museum corridor filled her mind. Pools of round light highlighted dolomite statues of dead Egyptian kings, a brightly painted sarcophagus, a case holding ancient, broken pots. She heard the rush of children's laughter pouring past her and her own shouts for the students to order.
She was in the conservatory now. It was yesterday morning. Scott held Marie's hand and talked about killing The Eater of Souls in Jean. She saw him so sharply he seemed to materialize in front of her. She heard his voice, smelled his scent. Abruptly, Scott vanished and she was standing by the professor's grave, weeks ago, arguing with Logan and hoping he wouldn't abandon them. She was fighting Magneto's army while at the same time standing in the gym telling Marie not to lose hope. She was everywhere, and nowhere.
Coming back to herself in the terminal too suddenly, Ororo stumbled. The porter dropped a bag to catch her arm. He encouraged her to sit. She registered his rich Jamaican accent and his concern, but shook her head. She didn't want the porter putting himself in danger by asking too many questions. "I'll be fine. Thank you. I should have eaten breakfast, I suppose."
Her own danger was all too apparent. The Charles she remembered would never have ripped memories from her mind so clumsily. But, there was no other explanation for that sudden flood of disconnected visions. She took several deep breaths and stared at the monster pretending to be her mentor and friend.
No one at the school knows. His thoughts marched through her mind, disrupting her own. Any pretence of Charles' gentleness had vanished. Good. I thought people would have to die.
No compassion tempered that thought, only a vague disappointment that torture and pain would be delayed. Ororo's gaze skated to Moira, who stood passively beside the wheelchair.
She couldn't be reasoned with, the false Charles continued. Physician ethics or some such. I've had to dominate her mind. I hope you will be smarter.
Oh Moira. Was she even in her body anymore? Was there anything left of her? Ororo couldn't allow herself to consider the possibilities. The monster was in her mind and had none of Charles' qualms regarding psychic violence. She couldn't even rationalize acceptance with a hope that continued freedom might give her a chance to defeat the creature. She couldn't risk giving it an excuse to destroy her mind. Ororo could only nod acceptance.
You hate yourself for not fighting, the creature masquerading as Charles told her. I like that.