"Come on, people," he bellowed, raising his voice above the squeaks of bare feet on the mat and the muffled sounds of shins crashing against pads. "I want to see that footwork we talked about."
Barely anyone looked at him. They were busy looking at each other, eyes planning where feet would be. Better that way: attention and focus would be more useful in a fight than almost anything he could teach them in here, especially considering Ro had a strict no-eye-gouging rule.
On the other side of the spacious gym, opposite the huge-ass mat and across a wide empty space where the hardwood floors gleamed under floor-to-ceiling windows, the long row of treadmills was empty. Normally Marie would be there at this time of the day, getting a run in before Hank came to do drills and sparring. That had always been a pet peeve of his, the fact that she insisted on her own running program on top of whatever insane training schedule he'd put her on, even if it meant long runs on her only rest day. Back then Logan had pleaded and argued with her to dial it down. Now her commitment to running was the only way he was ever in the same room with her for more than a few minutes.
After the disaster that was the night before, maybe that was for the best. It wasn't fair, the spiel he'd given her. It would have been a different story if he was a better person, someone who deserved to be tracked down the way Ro had tracked him. But he wasn't, and he didn't, and that was that. Didn't matter if Marie knew that or not: he knew enough for them both. He'd have to find her later and apologize. Tell her it wasn't fair. Tell her she had no business going after him in Canada, and good on her for moving on. Logan sure did wish he could move on from himself.
From the middle of the mat, he filled his lungs. "Alright, let's try some high kicks now. With the way you people beg to end class early to stretch, I better see some shit fit for a Rockette audition, you understand me?"
There was some scattered laughter, but mostly more grunting. The older kids complained too much. Teaching the younger kids was more fun, because they tried a lot harder. They hadn't learned to be afraid to care yet.
The fabric of the class slackened while they switched, with several students walking off the mat to find water, or some other reason to stall. Logan meandered slowly among the ones who'd continued, stopping here and there to correct a student's form.
"Jimmy, man, I've seen you kick twice that high," he barked. Jimmy grunted but tried again, his sweat-slicked blond hair testifying to effort at least. Logan kept going, moving into the place of a slip of a girl called Lucy who was literally in over her head.
"How the hell did you two pair up?" he grunted, slipping in front of her in time to block her six-foot partner's kick. "Lucy, next time when I say the person next to you, take it with a grain of salt, alright?" He tried to look around for someone to switch with her. The boy's size-13 foot came up again, and he grabbed it without looking. "Bob, settle down, will ya?" Bob shifted awkwardly on his standing leg, hopping for balance with his foot still locked in Logan's grip as he turned to the girl. "You see anybody else mismatched?"
Lucy pouted a little, then pointed to the corner. "Maybe them?"
Marcus was standing in the back with a put-upon look on his face. In front of him were all five feet two inches of a frowny-faced Sunny, who somehow managed to take up more space than he did. Once he tuned into it, the conversation came through clearly, even over the class's grunts and gripes.
"—supposed to be blocking each other, not just kicking the air!"
"What do you care, anyway? Do you have an actual Rockettes audition?"
Logan bit back a snicker and told what's-her-face to wait, pulling on a mask of a menacing look as he walked over. "The hell's going on over here? Why are you two not doing the drill?"
"Ask her," Marcus said, sulking.
Sunny crossed her arms over her chest. "This is a pointless exercise in violence, and I refuse to take part in it."
All around, people were marked with signs of tiredness: ponytails sagging, sweat stains darkening shirts. Meanwhile Sunny looked as fresh as a flower, a loose top that had no place in the gym flowing over black yoga pants. Logan looked her up and down, sizing up how much trouble she'd be willing to stir. A lot, no question about it. It was always redheads, for some reason.
"Kid, it's a pad drill. You're kicking a goddamn pillow."
"Well, I don't want to."
"I'm sorry, did I do something to make you think I care what you want? Cause that was my mistake."
She sunk into herself, frowning deeper and crossing her arms tighter. "I have a right to peaceful protest."
Of course, he'd practically asked for this. Most of the kids in the class had signed up, but Sunny was here because Ro had made her, at his goddamn suggestion. Now he wondered how drunk he'd been at the time. Involuntary participation was a recipe for disaster.
"This ain't the National Mall, kid," Logan huffed. "You got a partner here, and it's bad form to let him down."
"Marcus doesn't care," Sunny ventured, but the look she threw him was less sure than the words suggested. They look at each other, across a foot's worth of height difference. "Do you?"
Marcus was looking at his feet, arms tight against the sides of his body. On the basketball court he could shrug on swagger like a varsity jacket, but the minute the ball got put away he started acting like his limbs needed to be folded and tucked out of view.
"If you looked like me," he finally mumbled, fascinated by his sneakers, "you might be a little more worried about self-defense."
Sunny's resolve wilted. She had a pretty girl's ease about her, the kind learned from a lifetime of doors held open and five pencils offered for each forgotten one. Whatever she'd run from, it hadn't shaken her trust that the world had a place for her, and someone was saving it.
"You're just green, dude," she said softly. "Big deal."
"I guess I shouldn't expect you to relate."
It wasn't often you heard a compliment dressed up like an insult. Logan backed off an inch, wanting to see how she'd take it. To his surprise, she walked up and set a hand on Marcus's elbow.
"I know we're not friends of anything, but I… I was gonna get it, too."
Marcus wavered. "It might not even be true. I'm gonna ask Hank when he comes back. Or maybe Rogue knows."
"Either way, we'll be okay."
Logan's ears tingled, but he kept quiet. It'd be better to ask later. Maybe on the basketball court. The two kids were smiling at each other now, awkward but sincere.
"That mean you gonna do the drill?" he asked, arching an eyebrow.
Like anything was ever that easy. She turned towards him and closed her guard again.
"I mean, no?" she said, head cocked. He knew from her posture that it wasn't a question, unless the question was if he was an idiot. "I told you I think this is a pointless exercise in violence."
"And this," he said, waving at her, "is a pointless exercise in resistance."
She clicked her tongue. "And what are you gonna do? Force me to kick him?"
"That ain't my favorite option, but it sure is one of them."
"If I were you," she said slowly, the dark amusement in her smirk subtle but impossible to miss, "I wouldn't try to force me to do anything."
Logan took the measure of her. If she packed a hundred pounds on that frame that was a lot, even counting the mass of red hair that hit her waist. There was no sign that she was good at hand-to-hand. Whatever propped up all that confidence had to be her mutation.
"What happened to peaceful protest?"
She backed down, but only to cross her legs at the edge of the mat and leaning back against the wall. "There. Peaceful protest."
Sunny looked between him and Marcus, her arms still in front of her chest, daring him to object.
The drill should have been over, but everyone else was literally still kicking, waiting for his signal. Marcus stood nearby, waiting for him to decide something. Kids were looking over by now, trying to see where their tormenter had disappeared to.
He yelled out an order to switch partners and pointed to Marcus. "You go make a trio with someone else who doesn't think this is the war in 'Nam. And you," he added, motioning to the girl, "better not dare move your ass outta there. If you don't want to do the fucking drill, you sure as hell ain't gonna do anything else, either."
"So instead of a pointless exercise in violence you're giving me a pointless exercise in sitting?"
"I got news for you, it gets a lot more pointless than this," he said tiredly, a bead of sweat ticking the side of his face. He leaned against the wall and spilled down to the floor, landing heavily next to her.
"You're not gonna ask?" she muttered, looking out at the dueling pairs on the mat.
"Ask what?"
"What my powers are," she said, a little impatient. "Isn't that what everybody wants to know?"
"Mmm," he hummed softly, scratching his chin.
"What?"
"Trying to think of anything I want to do less than listen to a teenage girl talk about herself."
"Ha ha," she huffed, the mock laugh layered thick over a smaller, genuine one. He braced himself for her comeback, but instead she just yelped, "What the hell is that?"
Logan looked over. He was about to say it was a cat — a kitten even, less than a year old, with white across his chest and muzzle, down to the tips of his paws. But then he realized what she meant. Whatever that kitten was, it was about to be something else.
The in-between shape was almost frightening, some kind of untold monster that wasn't a cat any more than it was human, or anything else Logan had ever seen. But then the brown curls came to frame the green eyes, and his dimpled smile appeared, and by the time all four feet of Harry Cook came to stand in front of them, Sunny was beaming at him just like her name made you think she would.
"How you doin', kid?"
"I'm well, thank you," Harry said, all business. "How are you?"
Sunny laughed out loud, and Logan smirked. "Doin' alright. You learnin' much yet?"
"They don't have a class about dinosaurs."
"Well, maybe you can teach one."
Harry immediately saw the problems with this suggestion. "I'm not a teacher." He stepped forward, interested. "You're a teacher."
"I teach this," Logan explained, waving in the boy's general direction and prompting him to turn around. He watched intently as Logan's students beat the crap out of each other and then cocked his little head. His blue glasses slipped askew.
"Why is everyone kicking? Mom says it's bad to hit people."
Next to him, Sunny giggled. "See? The little kid gets it."
Harry swiveled and looked at her, curious. "I'm six."
That could have been a correction to being called a little kid, or just a piece of information he thought might be useful. It wasn't clear. Either way, it meant enough to Sunny that she let out a small sigh, and a glimmer of the past that she hadn't offered before.
"I have a sister your age."
"Where is she?"
"She's at home." Her smile was small and bittersweet. "Far away."
"Are you a teacher too?"
"No, I'm a student," she said, flashing a smile. "I'm Sunny."
"Don't let the name fool ya," Logan warned. "She'll rain right on your parade."
She no doubt thought of some clever little comeback, but whatever she said next was lost to him. Across the oversize room, Marie was coming through the door. Her gaze swept the room for something, and from the jeans and shoes she was wearing it probably wasn't a free treadmill. Looking for Harry, probably. Logan crossed the mat, barking new commands. The students reshuffled around him.
Her gaze locked onto his as soon as she noticed him coming. There was a flash of the past in the way she walked up to him, all those layers of resentment that had seemed like a barricade giving way as easy as cobwebs. They met in the middle, still among the kicks that rained around them both.
"He's here," Logan said, pointing. "Right there."
Harry was blabbering to Sunny now, who was all nods and smiles. Marie's features smoothed with relief. He almost regretted telling her so quickly, because the transformation was swift and visible. Her guard came up again, and the blank expression he'd gotten used to these last few weeks settled back into place.
She tilted her head. "Sunny's in your class? What's she doing sitting on the floor?"
"More a question of what she ain't doin', but that's a long story. What's going on with the Cooks?"
"Karen went to get some of his stuff. He'll stay here a few days while we figure this out. She's looking into moving away, although of course I wish it wouldn't come to that." She cast a look towards Harry. "Warren still doesn't have an address for that plate."
"He'll get something. He's good." No one knew what would happen when he got one, but Logan didn't want to point that out. "Kid's ok, though?"
"He's… fine." But in between the words, she shook her head.
He paused, trying to gauge how much to push. "Givin' you trouble?"
She took a deep, steadying breath. "This is the fifth time I lost him."
"Well, then it's the fifth time you found him."
To his surprise, she allowed herself to smile. "I guess. It's just that whenever I lose track of him…" Marie shrugged, clearly a little overwhelmed. "I mean, he can be anywhere. He can be anything."
"Imagine playing hide-and-seek with the kid." Marie ducked her head, but there was a bud of a laugh there, and Logan counted it on his score. Maybe last night hadn't gone as bad as he thought. He should have left it at that, but of course he didn't. "That why I didn't see you training today?"
"It's gonna be a little hard to keep up for a bit. Especially with Hank in D.C. all the time." Her gaze drifted again and he followed it to see Harry sitting next to Sunny now, apparently showing her his shoe. Laughter bubbled between them, loud even over the sounds of two dozen kids kicking pads. "It doesn't matter," she added softly.
She moved away from him, zigzagging between the pairs of students. He followed. All night he'd tossed and turned in bed, replaying the fight in his head like he could change the ending, or make it right somehow.
Against his better judgment, he touched her elbow right before they reached the kids. "Listen, if you need any help watching Harry, or—"
Marie turned, and he wished she hadn't. It was like a gate closing, any openness she'd shown shut down behind it, out of his reach. "I got it."
His instinct with her had always been to do more. Now she was asking for less. He wasn't sure he could offer that.
From the corner Sunny watched them, Harry yapping away next to her. He lowered his voice. "You just said you ain't even got time to train."
"I'll figure it out when Hank comes back."
Not even less, she'd asked for nothing. It meant not being in her life. It meant letting her go.
"You know I could be training you." Someone yelped — partner missed the pad, most likely. "Can't we fucking sort this out?"
Marie's stare could have blocked a punch. "I thought that's what we did last night." When she turned to her charge, who was now curled under Sunny's arm, she became someone else entirely. "Harry? Come on, we're supposed to check out the art room, right?"
The kid sprung into her arms hard enough to knock out breath. She grinned, cocooning Harry in warmth that didn't touch Logan at all. He just stood there as they walked away, looking for a problem he could handle. For once, everything seemed to be going smoothly. Lucy had somehow found her way to a girl with eyes on the back of her neck, which Logan had never quite gotten used to. Marcus was doing his best Rockette impression to her original partner.
"You know she likes you, right?"
It was Sunny, looking up at him from where she was still spilled on the floor.
"You know what? I just thought of something," he said.
"What?"
"You know what I want to do even less than listen to a teenage girl talk about her life?"
She rolled her eyes, probably guessing the punchline.
He delivered it anyway. "Listening to her talk about my life."
Sunny squinted. "Well, maybe if you did, your life might go a little better." She clicked her tongue. "I mean, come on. Nobody hates a guy that much without being in love with him."
Logan snorted. Sass was alright with him as long as it was funny. Hadn't Marie had that sass, too, as different as they were? Maybe that was what made him soften, running a hand through his hair without hiding his smile. "You got any more wisdom you want to dispense?"
"Probably not right now," she said, head cocked. "I'll let you know later, though."
No point hiding the smile. The hour was almost up. Logan stood up and extended a hand to her. "You don't have to fight if you don't think it's good for you. People come here with all kinds of stories. Ain't no one size fits all."
"Okay…?" Sunny leaned on his hand more than he expected, letting him pull some of her weight as she stood up. She was as light as he'd predicted. "What's the catch?"
"Point of this class is to make yourself better somehow. To help yourself, or help this school somehow. You owe me three hours a week of your time. I'll think of something we can do with it."
"Sure," she said meekly, standing uncertainly as he angled himself toward the rest of the students. "I guess I'll end up staying here longer than I planned."
He raised an eyebrow. "That right?"
"I was gonna take it," she said, looking away.
It wasn't clear what that meant. He remembered what she'd said to Marcus earlier, which he'd meant to clarify. "You mean the cure?"
Sunny nodded, then raised her eyebrows at the fact that he was clearly still confused. "You don't know what happened?"
Logan just stared.
"Dude, it's all over Twitter. They're saying it failed again."
"The blood work is mostly a formality," Hank said in his doctor voice. "We'll keep this sample as a baseline, and use it to monitor the development of your mutation as the cure wears off." The metal surface of the bench clinked as he set down his pen and turned to her.
The prick of the needle burned her arm, sharp and fleeting, and she bit her lip against the urge to whine.
"I'm very sorry," he said.
"Barely felt it."
Over the rim of his glasses, he gave her a serious look. "Not just for that, my dear."
Hank turned away to label her sample. Marie looked down at her bare hands and flexed her fingers. As a child, her music teacher mother had been dutiful about her piano lessons, and whenever she had a keyboard under her hands it amazed her that her fingers knew where to go and what to do, keen to implement her mind's designs and economical in their need for instruction. Now, bare in the cold of the med bay, her fingers again seemed fully autonomous; the thought of touching Hank induced in them a mild form of paralysis, even though everything indicated that it was still perfectly safe.
Marie had seen the news in social media first, but soon there was a voicemail from the center where she had been enrolled in the cure trial. They had tried to reach all the patients first, but due to the large size of the cohort, news of the cancellation had leaked too quickly. There were no known health risks and no new side effects, a nurse had explained placidly on the phone when she called the hotline. She should, however, expect the effect of the cure to slowly wear off, until eventually her powers returned to the baseline they had been at before the trial. No unexpected expressions of patients' mutations had been reported so far, but if any arose she should seek medical attention immediately.
The staff at Columbia University was thankful for her interest in furthering science, and available for any additional questions at her next scheduled appointment.
Hank put the sample in a fridge and pulled a stool up to the examination chair. "Perhaps we can talk about any questions you might have," he suggested, sitting in front of her with his knees spread wide. In dark jeans and rolled-up sleeves, he looked disarmingly young.
"Hank, sugar, you shouldn't be doing any of this yourself."
"Nonsense!" he exclaimed, indignant. "I certainly cannot think of a better use of my time." He leaned forward, raising both eyebrows. "Tell me what's on your mind, my dear."
"Just the obvious, I think." Her fingers flexed and stretched, a tick from years of daily glove wearing. "How long do I have?"
Cocking his head, he let out a sigh. "I'm afraid my work here won't be predictive, I'm afraid. I expect only to characterize your subjective experiences, not to anticipate them."
Marie sighed heavily, nodding. "So you can't tell. Do we know what to expect?"
"There are no definitive conclusions on this matter. The time between subjects has been highly variable, and reports of full reversal have only just begun to come out for those who enrolled in the study at the earliest times." He raised his eyebrows, deep in thought. "I would expect a few weeks, at least, based on your enrollment date. Perhaps longer. I'm afraid only time will tell."
Leaning back, Marie looked at the ceiling for a moment. "I feel like I saw this coming, in a way."
"How so?"
"Something drew me here, back to this place."
She'd been so restless in New York, even with Jubilee and a job she'd come to enjoy. The first time she'd heard about the new clinical trial, Jubilee had been ecstatic, but to her it had almost felt like a burden. It meant reaching once again for all the things she had once thought she wanted. It meant trying again, just when she'd convinced herself of the merits of giving up.
Something about this place called to her, and then soothed her when she came. There was so much in the air that was old and familiar — even down here in the med bay, the mansion's old walls had a particular signature of smell that she had missed without ever knowing it. The pictures went by her mind, a flipbook of faded memories: the imposing front door and the portico where she'd come to smoke every night. The doors of the east wing dorms, each decorated with its owners' name in colorful lettering. The whiny stairs that led to the second-floor landing.
Logan at the top, a smirk on his lips as he looked down.
She shook her head. "It's never gonna work, is it?"
Hank's intellectual honesty was a point of pride as a scientist, and she expected no attempt to embellish the truth. He simply nodded and said, "There is no guarantee that it will."
Marie knew she wasn't the first mutant to struggle with her powers. Scott had once reminded her that he'd worn a blindfold for a year before coming to discover the rose quartz that made it safe for him to see. Jean had eventually lost herself to the wildness inside her. Logan was terrified of immortality. But of all the team members, she'd always felt that Hank was the one whose plight — a daily, lonely grind of dehumanizing other-ness with little glamor to redeem it — was most like her own.
"How did you…" She paused, unsure how to phrase the question. A lush coat of blue fur lined his forearms. The meticulously trimmed beard framed a wild smile, sharp with canines. The small metal frame of his glasses looked almost comically small on his broad features, a doll's tea set in the hands of a grown man. It always struck her that he could look so much less like a human than Logan, and simultaneously so much more civilized.
"Come to terms with it?" His smile was warm; he wasn't offended. "There are days when I haven't, still."
The gravity of his voice sobered her; it was easy to believe a man with so many answers never had any questions, but that would be looking through him. She nodded, hoping to help him feel seen.
"On most days, however," he added, a boyish grin lighting up his face, "I find ways to remind myself of the mystery that is the truly extraordinary."
So fast that all she saw was a blur of movement, Hank jumped off the chair. By the time light caught up with his movements he was hanging by both knees from a wide steel beam above them, thick blue hair hanging unruly off his head, looking at her with amusement while slipping a Twinkie out of his pocket. There was a rakish charm in it; he was certainly a handsome man.
Marie laughed. "Extraordinary is a good word for it."
"And for your mutation as well," He jumped back gracefully, landing back on the stool with barely a squeak of the faux leather cover, and waved the Twinkie in her general direction. She shook her head, and he promptly bit off half of it. "What you can do, Rogue…" The tone in his voice was awe. "My stars and garters! In all my years, I've never come across it. Your X gene can be reprogrammed. Even shapeshifters can't do that. It is simply unheard of."
"But it can't really be reprogrammed," she protested. "I lose all the mutations." Again her hands moved of their own accord, adjusting phantom gloves that would soon return to life. "I'd be more gung-ho about my skin if I didn't, frankly."
Hank cocked his head. "We've talked about this, my dear." Raising an eyebrow, he added, "More than once, I believe."
Hank was right: they had had this conversation before, a number of times, starting with the very first time she'd met him. The professor had summoned him to the school to examine a handful of children he thought needed particular attention. Only now, with an adult's understanding of what Hank's responsibilities had been at the time, did she appreciate how immensely generous it had been for him to do that. He'd sat her down in an examination room much like this, made comfortable small talk, and told her what he thought her mutation really was.
She still had not entirely come to terms with it. "You still think…"
"Not think. I know," he said. "It's in your DNA, plain to see for those who know where to look."
"Then how have I never managed before?"
"But you have," he said.
The fluorescent lights in the med bay seemed to touch objects unevenly: the cobalt-blue polish on her nails; the Twinkie wrapper Hank had left on his desk; the buckle of his belt. What had happened in Pass Christian seemed so completely different from what Hank and the professor had described to her.
"It doesn't seem like the same thing."
"And perhaps it is not," he said, standing up. "But it is a hint that my hypothesis is correct. Your powers will be weakened when the cure begins to wear off, which will create an optimal opportunity for a trial, if you want to investigate. Naturally Logan would be the ideal candidate. I'm sure he'd agree."
Marie narrowed her eyes. "You really think it's possible."
His forehead broadened as he raised his eyebrows. "Of course it is. You can absorb anyone's powers permanently, Rogue. It's simply a matter of understanding how."
Ororo glanced out the window, but the golden light that flooded the main office stoked the throbbing pain above her eyebrow. She looked away, back to her guest. "I realize this is slower progress than you would have liked to see, Ms. Cook."
"Slower than I'd like?" Cook echoed, not bothering to look up. "Is it any progress at all?"
Cook was sitting in one of Xavier's wide leather chairs across the gargantuan desk, her hands and her gaze in her lap. Behind her, Rogue began to pace the Persian rug, hands in her pockets, but stopped at a warning look from Ororo, understanding the cue. Satisfied, Ororo checked her own posture: shoulders back, chin up, forehead carefully smoothed over all the worry she kept to herself. Calm was the most contagious emotion, even when it was synthetic.
"Sorry. And please call me Karen." Cook raked her hair with her fingers, patting down loose strands into her neat ponytail. "I'm grateful for the help, I really am." Her disappointment was obvious under the attempt to conceal it. "I don't want to sound like I'm complaining. I just don't understand. I told you what happened. I even got a license plate. No one looked into that?"
From the couch, Rogue opened her mouth, but closed it as soon as she saw Ororo's face. She fiddled nervously with her green gloves, but deferred on the answer.
"We certainly did look into it," Ororo said. "The issue is that the license plate was connected to a form of shell company. They call it an LLC. In this case, it's essentially a device for anonymity. Even with the car registration, we don't have a real-world entity to tie it to."
"We're working on that," Rogue said, not quite disciplined enough to hold back entirely.
Ororo let it slide. "There are ways to trace an LLC back to people or companies. However, that requires a lot of work on intelligence. We're in an extremely volatile political moment. You've heard about the discriminatory weapons bill?"
"Hasn't everyone?"
"Then you'll understand that the smallest faux pas by a mutant organization could have outsized repercussions." She hoped Karen would understand her subtext. Their methods had to be either legal or absolutely undetectable, which did not make for fast results. "Public opinion is the only capital we can depend on to pass the bill, and our adversaries would love a chance to influence it against us."
"You're more optimistic than me if you really think this bill will pass," Karen said quietly.
Ororo smiled. "No one who knows me would call me an optimist, Karen. I just happen to know that the person heading the mutant lobby is…" A vivid image of Hank came to her, sitting late at night in the upstairs living room, documents fanned on the coffee table as he sat poring over them, sleeves rolled up and tie loosened. Rogue was watching expectantly, and she rushed to finish. "Well, he's a former diplomat. A very skilled political operator. I have a lot of trust in the work we're doing there."
"I'm glad." Karen attempted a smile that quickly became a frown. "I just… I can't sleep at night wondering if maybe someone was targeting my son."
"That's unlikely. We're open to every theory, but honestly, Karen, the simplest explanation is either a common burglary—"
Her head snapped up, a new spark in her eyes. "It wasn't a burglary. I'm sure of that."
Even drowning in the oversized furniture in her unassuming t-shirt and jeans, Karen Cook struck her as more than a victim. They knew now that she was a young widow and a single mother, which meant that she knew the full measure of loss and yet still had everything to lose. In time, she might become an ally; perhaps even a friend.
"What makes you sure?" Rogue asked, shifting forward. "If there's any detail you remember, even if it's tiny, that could be helpful."
Karen's blond ponytail swished as she shook her head, eyes fixed on the desk. "It's nothing specific, I just…. I know it wasn't a burglary. Something about… something about the men. I can't explain it."
Rogue tried again. "As in, how they looked? The clothes?"
"The way they looked at the house, they way they… I don't know, it didn't seem like they were getting ready to steal anything. I know a feeling isn't much to go on, but…" She peeked up, a sheepish smile budding. "A mother's intuition must count for something, right?"
Ororo stood up. "Of course it does. And I think the other explanation, maybe a more likely one, is a simple act of vandalism. Do a lot of people know your son is a mutant?"
"I certainly hope not," she said, harshly. "I've always asked him to hide it. But he's six. He must slip all the time."
"We'll find out what happened." Ororo walked around the desk and lightly touched Karen's shoulder. "Meanwhile, I want you to know he's safe."
Karen thanked her with a look and let herself be escorted out by Rogue. Ororo stayed behind, grateful for the moment alone. The day had been difficult: news of the failed clinical trial had swept through the school, leaving low heads and teary eyes in its path as students mourned their foiled and sometimes secret plans. As was the way of grief, there had been bonding, too; she'd seen Sunny and Marcus side by side on the path to the lake.
"Can I talk to you for a second?" Rogue was at the door again.
"Come on in. Karen left already?"
"She wanted to see Harry first. They're in the cafeteria." There was a pause, which she filled with a low, apologetic look. "I think you know what I'm gonna ask you." Rogue rocked back and forth on her feet, tentatively shifting her weight as if she suspected there was something new to learn about standing up. "Are we doing enough?"
Ororo bought herself time by sinking back into her chair. Harry at the moment was a much smaller concern than the bill. The boy was safe at the school; the break-in at his home was likely a garden-variety hate crime, and might even turn into a public relations victory if presented to the press in the right light. On the other hand, overreaction risked drawing attention to what was effectively a mutant paramilitary group, and the potential political fallout would make not only Harry but every mutant child in America less safe.
Rogue, of course, could never be told this. There were people in the world like Rogue and Logan, who drew strength from sentimentality and the illusion of moral clarity, and therefore needed both. And then there were people like Ororo and Hank, who had taught themselves to trust neither.
"We're trying, Rogue," was how she phrased her response. "You know our hands are tied right now. We can't draw any attention, and work on the field is too risky with the cure gas."
"But Harry—"
"—is safe here."
The girl tucked her hands into the pockets of her jeans and began to pace again, biting her lip. "Let's say Warren ties the license plate to something," Rogue asked. "Maybe we find out who was driving. Or who's behind the LLC." Her eyes narrowed. "What are the X-Men going to do then?"
"I can tell you what the X-Men won't do. We will not mindlessly trespass on private property and risk exposure to the cure without a very compelling reason to do so."
"So nothing." Rogue crossed her arms. "That's what we're gonna do."
Xavier's mementos, scattered around the office, seemed to confer amongst themselves for a moment, conspiring to make their usual accusations: the mess on the desk that the professor had always kept pristine; the half-full bottle of whiskey tucked into a shelf with a glass. Somehow this room had never come to feel like hers. It was never on her side.
"Just because it feels unsatisfying, that doesn't mean it's not the best course of action."
"I know the cure gas makes things complicated, but don't you think it's our job—"
"My job is to run this school," Ororo said decisively, standing up. The wind swelled outside, rustling the trees and licking at the roof. "I spent two months cured last year. Warren spent four. That didn't make anyone safer, least of all our students." The windows rattled and she closed her eyes, slowing her own breath in order to tame the sky's. "Your job, should you want it, is to understand that, and help me do what I need to do."
To Rogue's credit, she neither flinched nor retaliated. Instead she stood there, chest open and arms by her side, holding Ororo's gaze as she assimilated the words.
"I think I asked the wrong question," she said eventually, with a small step forward. "How about I try again?"
A wave of sympathy washed over her. "Let's try that."
"Here's my real question. Am I doing enough?"
"Rogue…"
"I mean it." She set her hands on the edge of the desk, brown eyes wide with the sincerity of youth. "Look, I'm not oblivious. I see what happened after I left. I mean, Warren was supposed to get his Ph.D. from Caltech. And Hank, Jesus, Hank was in the United Nations!" She turned her face away. "I know you were always here, but you could have gone anywhere. You know you could have."
Back in those days, Ororo had considered it. Keeping the school open after the professor's death had been a job fit for Hercules, and yet by the end of summer success had been within sight. Some of the children came back; Warren accepted a job; she and Logan had stumbled out from the worst of grief's fog, each finding resolve in the other's vulnerability. But then just before the year started the riot in Montana had happened, and in the days that followed, with the investigation threatening to turn against them and Logan slipping further and further away, Ororo had wondered if she'd been a fool to think the school could outlast its founder.
"You don't owe us anything, Rogue."
"Neither did anybody else. But you guys all stayed," she insisted, eyes filled with tears now. "That's the truth. I ran, like I always do. From home, from my powers, from…" She trailed off, leaving Ororo to wonder what it was that she did not want to say. It was not difficult to guess. "I don't want to run anymore," she said. "And I… I don't know how the hell to do more, Storm, but I want to. God knows I do. That's why I came here, even if I didn't totally know that yet." She looked Ororo in the eye. "I have no problem with the cure gas. If you need someone on the field, it can be me."
It was so easy to forget what it was like to be an eager young person, bursting through the door to adulthood only to find walls extending tall in every direction. Ororo did not know exactly what Rogue had expected when she came back to the school, but from daily observation it was clear that she had not found it.
"I appreciate that offer, Rogue," she said. "I really do. More than I can say."
"But you're not planning on taking it."
Ororo reached for the point on her head that still ached and rubbed it in small circles, using pressure to distract herself from the pain.
"I think you'll do great with more training. But as much as I love having non-mutant allies, I don't think we need more of those. What we really need is a mutant who's immune to the cure."
"Like Logan."
She agreed with a slow, deliberate nod, mindful of the treacherous territory. "Unfortunately Logan himself is not an option, but a healer would be ideal, yes."
Rogue's shoulders slumped under an invisible weight. "That does seem like the logical choice."
Before anything could be said in response, a knock on the door made them both look. Warren ducked his head into the room, the smell of his coffee preceding him. "Storm, you got a minute?"
Brushing past him with a smile, Rogue excused herself to give them privacy. The young people had evolved from officemates into friends, and Ororo suspected that one of them hoped they would evolve beyond that. Warren was self-aware enough to be discreet, but anyone paying attention would have noticed the way he watched as she walked out the door, even if it was only for a moment. There was no sign that she looked back.
He began in his usual way. "Here's the deal." In his lap was a thin folder, of the type he usually brought to briefings. "There's been another break-in."
The tendril of pain above Ororo's eyebrow reached inward, rooting into her brain.
"It was a place in New Jersey this time, some sort of… community center?" he said, frowning. "For mutants? It seems neat, actually. They have a pretty good website."
She raised an eyebrow. Warren's tendency to fixate on insipid details was either definitive proof of his genius, or an early symptom of his downfall. She could never quite decide which.
"This could all very well be a wave of vandalism from opponents of the bill," she pointed out.
"It could," he said, agreeably. "But then again, it could not." He set the folder on the desk, opening it to a black-and-white photo in low resolution. "Remember that Connecticut clinic? It turns out that right across the street there was a bank. They kindly allowed us to look at their CCTV."
"You mean you hacked it."
He leaned back, stretching his long legs as he tucked his arms behind his head with a boyish smirk. "Eh. Tomayto, tomahto. And don't worry. On the off chance anyone looks into it, the breadcrumbs lead to a fourteen-year-old girl in Iowa who's a real bully in World of Warcraft."
Ororo rolled her eyes. "I refuse to ask how you know that," she noted, leaning in to look at the photo. The subject seemed to be two men getting out of a car, barely visible across the street. The men were covered from head to toe, dressed in black. Something about the sight made her uncomfortable.
It was Warren who articulated what. "Whatever these people are doing, it's not a joy ride to them. It's clearer in the video than the stills, but we saw four guys jumping out of an SUV, all in black getups, uniformed kinda deal."
"That must have been what Karen noticed," she muttered. "She said they didn't seem like burglars."
"Interesting. Yeah, I don't like this either. I think it's a good idea to have someone go there, check the situation out. Nothing risky. But ideally not me, since I already went to the clinic."
"Hank and I both need to stay out of it," she said. "We're too closely associated with the bill."
"I realize that."
"But we have someone who really wants to help, and this could be the perfect chance."
"I was thinking the same thing," Warren said. "He asked me to let him know if anything came up. I already mentioned this to him."
She arched an eyebrow. "Him?"
Warren cocked his head. "You mean Logan, right?"
The deep angle at which Storm's head was cocked to the side — along with the comma-shaped furrow that punctuated her eyebrows — spelled out a studied sympathy that made Marie feel smothered. It was the same facial expression she used whenever she thought a student might be depressed.
"It's a good thing, honey."
Marie caught herself balling her hands into fists. "Right. I realize that."
Storm frowned more deeply. "Logan is very good at this type of assignment," she said. "I realize you might have liked to have it, but—"
"I don't have enough training," she supplied, carefully hitting just the right note of resignation. Too much and the furrow might deepen; too little, and this conversation might never end. "I get it."
"You won't be lacking opportunities to help."
She nodded, knowing words at this point would only fuel Storm's pity. Further platitudes were offered, but receded to a hum-drum as Marie examined her own worries. Between Hank's never giving him her time and Harry demanding all of hers, training moved at a glacial pace. When would she be ready to do more? What would that be, in the current circumstances? And why had Logan of all people — Logan who'd given up his place in the team, who'd never wanted it to begin with — chosen to take, of all things, the one assignment she could have plausibly performed?
He'd always had an arrogant way of swooping into her life under the guise of helpfulness. When she wasn't sure where to go after high school, he'd "offered" to talk to Xavier about a job as an assistant, so that she could have the option to stay. In her community college days, when she had decided to buy a car and began to casually look for one with Bobby, Logan had "recommended" a dealer he liked and all but picked out the Yaris she eventually bought. And of course, when she'd made up her mind to go to UCLA, he'd been the one to "suggest" a trip to see Stony Brook.
By the time she left the main office for the faculty kitchen, Marie had layered enough memories onto that initial kernel of indignation to make it full-blown anger. There was an almost physical pleasure in letting her outrage at him fill her body, and when one of the fancier Four Roses labels greeted her from the car cart, she decided to greet it back.
In that last summer in Meemaw's house, she had discovered that visiting as an adult meant a steady stream of old-fashioneds, always with two cherries. Marie set to opening cabinet doors, hunting for a set of bitters she thought she'd seen. Soup bowls, espresso cups, ridiculously shaped glasses for obscure types of liquor, and even a food processor all made an appearance. Not for the first time, Marie wondered how much more use this kitchen had seen when everyone was alive.
The repetitive motions and lack of success sapped her energy and her anger. The reality was that by leaving, she had written herself off. Her training now was lacking, but that wasn't Hank's fault; she could have stayed and kept at it. She'd chosen the cure instead. When it came to asking questions at the community center, there might be fibs or even outright lies; Logan would be better at spotting those. Maybe it was good that he wanted to go. Maybe he hadn't left the team permanently. Maybe she had misunderstood more of their history than she realized.
She'd almost given up on her cocktail when the wink of a glass bottle caught her eye from a top shelf that was habitually crammed with odds and ends by very tall housemates who thought nothing of vertical distance. Marie stretched to her tippy-toes hopefully, but her fingers only just brushed the front of the shelf. She looked around: the counter-height stools were a hassle to climb on, but she might be able to fish the bottle off the shelf with the right implement — say, perhaps this long chef's knife off the wooden block… Wielding it, Marie stretched her legs and arms, lips pursed with the effort as she tried to slide the tip of the knife behind the small bitters bottle…
"Jesus, kid."
She rocked back, startled, her grip reflexively tightening. A hand steadied her just as she slumped back onto a pad of warm muscle. Logan's arm shot up alongside hers, relieving her of the knife as his other hand curled around her waist. She felt the rumble of his voice in the space between her shoulder blades.
"Didn't think anyone was using that. People around here tend to drink their liquor straight."
Marie turned to find herself caged in against the kitchen counter, with Logan's broad chest taking up her entire field of vision as he held up the bottle of bitters in offering. Their fingers brushed together when she took it.
"Thanks," she spat, in the annoyed tone that was becoming muscle memory. "I was just leaving."
She tried to move, but Logan stepped forward instead of back, bracing his arms against the counter on both sides of her.
"That right? And you were going where?"
"Not that it's any of your business, but I was going to my room."
"With a bottle of Angostura bitters?" he challenged, raising an eyebrow.
Marie narrowed her eyes. "You don't know what I do in my room." She regretted the words immediately.
His gaze dragged down her body like a feather. The reason anger was so easy to stoke was the same reason why it was so dangerous: it felt so much like arousal that sometimes she reached for one and stumbled on the other. The feather danced across her breasts and they grew heavy, practically suggesting that he cup them in his hands.
Logan's eyes darkened predatorily. "I got some idea."
Sometimes she honestly wondered if they'd be better off going to bed a few times, no strings attached. What was the point of drawing that line when all they ever did was sidle as close to it as possible, so close that his clothes were rustling against hers?
"Well, whatever you think I do, you can be sure you're not part of it," she lied.
He backed off an inch, but kept his arms where they were. "Come on, ki— Rogue. This whole thing is getting outta hand. Now you're mad at me for fucking reaching for something?"
"I'm not." It was everything else she was mad at.
"Then stop it." There was a pleading tone in his voice that she hadn't heard before. "Alright? I know you don't want to be my friend. I get that you don't like me. God knows I don't."
Out of deep-seated habit, she frowned at his self-hatred.
"We can't live here and keep avoiding each other like this."
"Well, it's just until you leave. We've managed this far."
"And you want to keep at it?" he said, lowering his face towards hers.
"You have a better idea?"
His eyes flickered down to her lips, but he pulled away and raked a hand through his hair. The cold air that rushed in where he'd been felt a lot like disappointment.
"It's hurting your training," he said. "I know it's Hank's job and I respect that you want to keep it that way, but he ain't in a position to put in the time right now. Everyone else shows up to my class to train. Even Ro sometimes. You're the only one who never can?"
"I don't know if you heard, but the cure failed again." Even the thick sarcasm could not disguise the way her voice faltered. "My powers are coming back any moment. I don't think it's a good idea to spar with a bunch of kids."
"Then spar with me."
That was a bad idea, and Logan knew it. After that night in Montauk, when the cold ocean breeze had been their excuse to share a blanket, a lot of whiskey, and some body heat (in that order), she had waited for a gesture to confirm the undeniable. Nothing came. Almost a week passed until she decided to force the issue by pointing out that now that she was cured, they should spar more often.
Marie had known perfectly well why they rarely sparred. Any beginner might occasionally experience an erection when they sparred, and she'd awkwardly ignored a few. But she'd never known an instructor to have one, and for all the school's gossip there was never talk of anyone else feeling Logan's thick hard-on against their hip.
He had laughed and asked if she'd gotten cured to spar more. That was when she walked into her own trap, splaying a hand on his bare chest and whispering, "Well, it sure wasn't for a boy."
There had been a primally feminine, almost witchlike power in making his control snap. Logan tackled her to the ground with a fierce kiss, hands rushing far past hesitation to pleasure her breasts as he sank his hips onto hers with a deep, lusty groan. She'd ground against his proud cock, reveling the chance to openly luxuriate in it rather than pretend to be embarrassed by it. Few things she'd ever done had felt as unquestionably right as finally spreading her legs for him.
Marie bit her lips, struggling to push away the memory. Logan was reaching for her, intent on putting his hands where his mouth was.
"I don't care about your skin, Marie."
It would have been easy to take her hand again, the way he'd done that night in Harry's bedroom. But the scent of her arousal hung between them like a spider's web, and in close-range combat at least, she was as dangerous as he was. So he curled a broad hand around the side of her waist.
"Never did," he whispered. "Never will."
When she didn't swat him away his hand, he matched it with the other one, insinuating them under her top so that his brand could burn her bare skin.
"Whatever else you think of me, no matter how much of an asshole you think I am, that's one thing I need you to believe." He was so close now that she had to tip up her head to look in his eyes as he towered over her. "Can you believe that for me?"
Her anger slipped abruptly, one of its pillars suddenly gone as she realized that she could. Deep down, she always had. But she had told herself the worst, making her anger strong enough to safely hold her.
"That's not even the point anyway," she deflected. "I have Harry in the after—"
"If Harry's the problem, I'll figure that out." His thumbs arced, stroking her sides. "I can help you, Marie, if you let me. That's what I wanted to talk to you about," he said.
She left his hands where they were, but crossed her arms. "Then talk."
"You don't seem like you plan to listen," he pointed out, taking the cue and letting his hands fall to his sides. "We gotta clear the air first. You want to yell some more? Take a shot at me?" He studied her reaction for a beat before muttering, "Lord knows I deserve it."
Despite agreeing, she shook her head. "I don't want anything."
But he looked at the counter behind her, and his face changed. "Yeah, you do. You want a drink."
Surprised, she watched as he carefully examined the bottles in the bar cart before settling on one labeled with Japanese characters. From there he moved quickly, picking an orange from the fruit bowl and looking for something in a few drawers before giving up with a sigh. He'd once confessed that using the claws as tools, in the way an animal might, always made him self-conscious. But he slid one out and began to spin the orange, a perfect spiral of peel coiling on the counter as he carved it. He used it to kiss the rim of two glasses before mixing the drink; when it was poured, he pulled a jar from the fridge and fished out two Maraschino cherries, adding them both to the same glass. Then he set the drinks on the island and pulled a stool for himself.
"Thanks." She said it sincerely this time, taking her place in front of the two-cherry drink. Their hue was blood-deep, nothing like the garish lip gloss color that had graced the tops of her childhood cakes.
Rather than launch into conversation, Logan gave a curt nod and took a sip of his drink. She tried hers and found it perfectly balanced, the subtle spice of the liquor and orange teasing her tongue just as the sugar rushed to soothe it.
"That was a dick move," he said, eyes down. "Calling you out like that for leavin' here. You had a right to a life, Marie. It didn't have to be this one."
Whether it was the bourbon or his words, something softened her shoulders down. "You weren't wrong. I did leave. I want to do more. I want to help Harry."
"You're doing more for that kid than anybody else."
"I'm a glorified nanny."
"Tutor," he said, joking a little. "And so what? You're everything to that little boy right now. Don't let anybody tell you that doesn't count. Doesn't get enough credit, that kind of work."
"Maybe not. But it won't bring him home, either."
"Well, that's what I wanted to tell you. I asked Warren to deal me in. He's got an assignment for me in a couple days, going over to some community center that got broken into."
"I know." Despite some lingering bitterness, the fact that Logan didn't know she'd been interested was a small measure of relief. Maybe telling herself the worst about him had become a habit. "Storm told me." She raised an eyebrow. "I thought you didn't do that kind of thing anymore."
"I don't."
"Then why this? Why now?"
"Look, I've made my mistakes." He looked at her meaningfully, and Marie heard what he wouldn't say: she was one of them. "And I'm no fucking saint. But I'd like to think I can still do good. And if I promised you Harry was gonna be alright, then I want to make sure I follow through on that."
Marie suddenly felt terrible. Had her anger at him become such an ingrained habit that it was now completely self-propelled? She'd been so ready to trick herself into thinking he'd taken the assignment to annoy her. What if the simpler explanation had been that he just wanted to help?
"I appreciate that," she said, sighing deeply. "Which is… ironic."
"How do you mean?"
"I asked for that assignment too. Figured I could do some good, like you said, and get some practice." She tried to smile. "But it's fine. I guess I neglected my training for three years and you..." She shrugged. "Didn't."
He leaned back. "Look, I meant what I said before. No reason to let this mess between you and me get in the way of what you want."
"It makes no sense for me to take your place," she rushed to say. "You've got way—"
But he cut in. "That's not what I mean." Logan smirked. "No rule saying we can't both go, is there?"
Epilogue, part 3
Marie strains, gently holding Logan's head as he jerks on the table, divided. Marie's presence pulls him with planetary strength. She's back after years and he finds himself tied to a pitiful state of half-consciousness, anchored to the bottom of the past when all he wants to do is swim up to breathe in her kiss. It would be easier if he thought his mission would succeed. By now, he suspects that it will not.
He is right. Kitty's power is larger than the others know: she can feel it when the course of history bends, and that is how Marie knows that it hasn't. The time they chose to send Logan to is so deep in the past that all his actions disperse far before they touch the future.
Xavier chose that year because that is the history he knows. He was away when Hank almost passed the anti-weapons bill; he does not understand how close the world came to peace. He has, of course, heard of Karen Cook — the mother of the green-eyed boy Marie has burned the world to protect. They never met; by the time he returned to the mansion, Karen had already been killed by Trask. He knows the outlines of the story, but he has no way to know that all the terrible things that happened in those days stemmed from a single mistake.
Sweat beads on Marie's forehead as the heat from the explosions outside sweeps into the room. Their gambit is failing, and the only person who can save it may very well be her.
A.N.: 4 chapters down, 16 to go! If you're reading along and enjoying the story, it'd be great (and motivating, lol) to hear from you. :) Till soon!