WORKING TITLE: WatSB v.17
AUTHOR: Ebonbird (ebonbird@hotmail.com) and Kassia 
(kassia06@yahoo.mail)
WARNING:  This story may contain adult content and 
language and should not be read by those who are offended 
by such things or are not of legal age to do so.
NOTE: This story takes place after UXM 378.
DATE: 25 March, 2000
*************************


PROLOGUE

Jean Grey knew the extensive grounds of the Xavier Institute better than the 
terrain of her own mind. She'd come of age there. Learned how to use and 
control her telepathy and telekinesis there. Met Scott Summers there and one 
fine day, there married him.

In Autumn, when the birches and oaks turned their leaves all the colors of Jean's 
hair and more, he died. 

Hand outstretched to the bark of the tree, Jean's next step took her out of the 
shadow overlooking it and the pond. She turned back to survey the remains of 
her fire, putting her hand to the small of her back and stretched, her eyes 
closing. A fighter's muscles, an athlete's muscles, an acrobat's muscles pulled 
tight too long as strong slender arms returned demanding and awkward 
embraces, stretched and unknotted as she bent at the waist. Jean opened her 
sharp seeing eyes, took in the flinty sky, the ancient light settling on the frosted 
leaves pale like age.

Legs folding apart Jean sat down heavily and put the heels of her hands to her 
eyes. Her chest contracted. Her back dropped to the damp ground. Noise, bent 
between laughter and tears, shivered the quiet beneath the tree. 

Dry sobs, wet laughter.

The tree beneath which she lay had a heart burned on it. Within the precisely 
defined curves two sets of initials, 'S.S.' and 'J.G.S.' Groaning Jean hugged 
herself, covered her face with her arm. She lay quietly. When her lips parted, it 
was for a smile. 

"Scotty," she said. 

Her lips closed. She smiled wider and sat up.

The fire was still smoking. Twisting index and middle finger she dispersed the 
smoke. She rose and legs almost crossing, clutching her pink cardigan across 
the elbows, breath feathering from her nostrils and mouth, meandered back to 
the mansion.

Jean knew the grounds of the Xavier estate better than she did her own mind, 
half of it being gone, but the sight of the boathouse where she and Scott had 
lived when they first married took her almost by surprise.

They'd made out there as kids.

Made love there as mock-solemn husband and silly sly-boots wife.

Sitting cross-legged on the bed, naked with Scott, hands touching, there wasn't 
anything better. Like surfacing after having swum miles and years under water, 
without aid of sight and sound; of tasting sweetness after too many meals of 
ashes and wasted time. But it was also so natural, as easy as breathing, that she 
couldn't imagine any other way to be than with Scott, naked, palm to palm, mind 
to mind. 

There was a sound of thunder. Thick lightning fractured the sky. Wind took tree 
branches by their tips and tried to wrest them from their trunks.

Ducking her head, Jean pulled a bit of pink cardigan over her hair and dashed to 
the house.
Unexpectedly, the door was unlocked. Hesitating only a moment, Jean pushed it 
open. It smelled musty. Sheets covered the furniture. It didn't feel like the place 
where she and Scott had lived. 

The leader of the X-men stood at a window, brooding.

A rush of affection and annoyance ran through Jean's thoughts.

"Ororo."

The woman's attention snapped to Jean. Scott hid behind his glasses when he 
was brooding, but with him Jean had been able to slip into his mind and know 
what he was thinking and feeling.

The woman had picked the right window, though.

"What is it, Ororo?" Jean asked.

"I did not know.

"Did not know until he was gone how important his friendship was to me."

Up at night, late, discussing the X-Men, Scott on his back, ruby quartz glasses on 
his face. Chest brown and tight and broad, it's muscles clearly defined beneath 
her arm, as he considered the teams and Ororo.

A bolt of lightning revealed a glimmer of tears.

"You two are so much alike."

Ororo turned her gaze out the window. "I did not realize..." Speech failed her. 
"Oh Jean, he was the dearest of men. The most unassuming of friends. I did not 
comprehend the depth of his importance-" Wrapping her arms around Ororo, 
Jean put her head on Ororo's shoulder and hugged the taller woman tightly. 
Ororo finished speaking, her voice so very small, "To me." 

Scott and Ro, Jean thought, two sides of the same coin. Her two impossible 
friends. 

"He knew." 

It was raining outside. Softly. Prettily. 

"You saw each other through some horrible times. I don't think any other woman 
knew him better, except me."

"I took him for granted."

"It was obvious how much you cared for him."  Jean hugged her more tightly, 
humming a little. "He knew."

Ororo hugged her back. "I should be comforting you." 

"Sometimes I wonder about the two of you, what would have happened had I 
never come back. If he never met Madelyne." 

Drawing back, "Jean, never." 

Smiling gently, "Never? If you were stuck on a dessert island together all alone? 
Like him and Lee Forrester?" 

"N-n- never." 

"Of course not. Me being with Scott took my every initiative. And still we almost 
didn't happen." Jean laughed quietly. "The two of you were locked up tighter than 
clams back then. Still are." Jean's tone was mischievous. She went to the 
window and put her hand to the windowpane. "He loved you so much, Ororo. 
Sometimes he felt guilty that you didn't have someone, too."

Hugging herself Storm spoke carefully, "Is that why you told Forge I did not love 
him?" 

Jean suppressed a look of guilt. "You knew about that?" 

"We did continue to talk, Jean." 

"I wanted you to have what we had, Ororo. Not, not what Scott had with -"  Deep 
breath, "No substitutes." 

"The real thing." 

"You're angry." 

"Not anymore. I don't understand... But I love you. And you meant well." 

"I did." 

Jean looked over to the couch, pulled the sheet back, and settled herself in the 
crook. Ororo sat at the other hand. Tucked her legs under her. Jean slid her feet 
beneath Ororo's thigh. Reached beneath the couch and pulled forth a bottle of 
alcohol.

"You'd think," Jean said untwisting the cap, "That Scott would have had more 
original stashes."

Ororo said nothing. Removed her head from her hand and held her head 
straight.

Jean said, "I do not deliberately cause myself pain, Storm. I just, I should have 
known he'd started drinking."

"As should I."

Yes, Jean thought. Ororo should have noticed. As should she. As should have 
Charles. Jean put the bottle on the ground and rolled it back under the couch.

"Have you talked to Charles?"  Ororo asked.

"I can't. I see him, I see Scott. And I feel so much…" Jean made fists above her 
shoulders and shook them.

"Charles blames himself for Scott's death." 

Jean shook her head. "I need to start planning for everything, and I can't do it 
here. I'm leaving tomorrow. I'd appreciate it if you told Charles and everyone…"
She looked away. Towards the window, a frown on her mouth, her fingers poking 
impatient rhythm's in the arm of the couch.

"Goodbye."

Jean swun her head towards Ororo, "Good enough. I've got things to do."

"Are you sure that is wise?"

"I can't deal with everyone's thoughts as well as my own. Not right now. Not with 
planning Scott's memorial service."

"You should not have to."

"No," Jean said thoughtfully, "I shouldn't."

Ororo reached across Jean's leg, covering Jean's hand with hers. Surprise 
darkened Ororo's features, at the dry feel of Jean's skin. Their fingers opened 
against each other. Ororo turned Jean's engagement band and wedding ring 
easily with her thumb, so loose they were.

They listened to the rain turn to snow.

 



CHAPTER I 

Too many people in the mansion made for a type of heat Ororo could not abide. 
It had nothing to do with sun and earth. Everything to do with layered clothing 
and heavy shoes and the intrusive verbal slithering of voices pitched too loud, as 
American voices so often were.

Ororo walked quickly through a lesser used hallway of Xavier's mansion, over a 
floor that had been stripped to its first linoleum by thieves and never resurfaced.
All the cheap pile carpeting had gone into the rooms where Elizabeth anticipated 
much traffic.

Though barefoot Ororo was dressed in honor of the occasion, her hair bound in 
a fine net. Gold, gleaming and thick, at her wrists, ears, neck and fingers. Gold 
embroidery worked into the collar and cuffs of the black robes, raw silk, covering 
her from neck to ankle. It was a magnificent outfit if the sort she had favored in 
her early days with the X-Men, more than suited to the magnificence and 
generosity of spirit that had been Scott Summers' life. 

But Ororo was tired of black, and blue and brown for that manner. The mansion 
was full of people, Scott had had many friends and respected colleagues, and 
most of them wore black. In life Scott may have said that his friends were few 
and far between, his acquaintances many. 

He would have been wrong. Or perhaps Scott had different numbers in mind 
from hers when he said few and when he said many, socially speaking. 
  
Even Sunfire had come to pay eloquent respects. 

Christopher Summers was not to be consoled. 

Elizabeth had planned everything and was everywhere, leaving Warren, Henry, 
and Bobby to tend to the professor. Ororo had often glimpsed the British 
woman's purple hair, pulled back in an elegant knot at the base of her neck, slim 
shoulders in blue-black gabardine, head bent in conversation with one of the 
many servers that had descended upon the mansion to help with the dispersal 
and disposal of all comestibles. 

Ororo's claustrophobia flared beneath the onslaught of people, the heat of 
hundreds of bodies, the low level rippling sound of many voices greeting and 
commiserating, the smell of shoes, the tracks of mud on the hastily stapled 
cheap pile carpeting that covered the floors. When someone asked her how 
Scott had died, she kept the answer short. In battle. Saving us all. She did not 
add, lost through my own failure. Instead, "Thank you for coming to share this 
time with us." 

Everyone asked after Jean. 

She could hear music. Sean was playing Scott's favorites on a piano rented for 
the wake. She found herself smiling. As Scott had grown used to her, Kurt, 
Peter, Proudstar, and Logan he would join them in the common room some 
evenings.

Once she and Scott had made each other lunch and eaten it outdoors. They'd 
thought to join the others in the common room later that evening, only to find that 
they were alone for the evening. Nonplused, Scott had sat down at the piano 
bench and played his entire musical repertoire for her, 'Chopsticks' and 'Three 
Little Fishes'. 

Ororo spared a glance down the hallway. Forge stood before the closed common 
room doors, his sleek head bowed, arms crossed across his expansive chest. 
Silver winked from the base of his ponytail. 

Storm paused mid stride, her toe held for a fraction of a moment near her ankle, 
and resumed walking. 

"Ororo." 

She stopped. Turned. 

He stood in the doorway. Gravely, Forge spoke. "My condolences." 

She nodded once. 

"I'm sorry for your loss." 

Forge looked sincere. He frowned a little under her scrutiny. 

"I am sorry, too." 

"Do you know where I could find Jean? I'd like to speak to her." 

Ororo held the tray closer to her chest. "I am going to see her now, but she is not 
ready to receive visitors, Forge." 

"Figured as much. You holding up okay?" 

It was an odd question. She chose not to answer it. 

Forge stepped closer to her, "Ororo, if you need anything, need to talk or -- I 
know this can't be easy for you." 

"It is not, but -- I thank you. Jean is waiting." 

Stepping closer, Forge inclined his head, inhaled gently. "Is that?" 

"Chicken broth? An old Cheyenne recipe? Yes." 

Forge had no intention of looking angry and beseeching, but his eyes were 
hungry and the air between them thickened with a familiar, weighty energy. 
Forge's hand, the whole one, was buried to the wrist in the masses of Ororo's 
hair, having bypassed the netting catching it up. 

As always, his grip was on the gentle side of demanding, but demanding all the 
same. 

"Ororo…" 

She inhaled sharply. "Do not." 

Extracting his hand Forge peered at her intently.

Ororo frowned at Forge's fleeting smile. "The broth is getting cold." 

He bent, picked up her hair net and dropped it on the corner of her tray. 

"Old habits," Forge said. 

"You are excused," Ororo rejoined, brushing past him, not caring who she 
encountered in the main halls. 

Her heart was racing when she reached her attic suite. 

Jean was wandering the greenhouse when Ororo found her. Freshly showered, 
mostly wet hair bound in a ponytail and dressed in Ororo's clothes. 

"You must eat," Ororo began without preamble. 

"I should go down, greet the guests." 

"There is no need to force yourself." 

Jean's eyes were overbright in her drawn face. She'd lost her rose and gold 
tones, that bright almost olive earthiness to her color and for the first time in 
years and she pale freckles stood out on her pallid face. She wore silver earrings 
set with turquoise. Her lips were rouged, a color that was a little off on her. She'd 
put on dark pants and an even darker shirt and like Ororo her feet were bare. 

"Oh, there's a need, Ororo. Nobody loved him as much as I did, but this is as 
much for me as it is for them. And Charles insisted."

At that moment, Jean was lovelier than Ororo had ever seen her. She was a 
mask of herself. A doll. Jean would not wear her own clothing. Had borrowed 
from everyone. Sat on Ororo's couch and mail ordered a modest black clothing 
that she would not wear. 

"Is that food I smell?" 

Ororo nodded. "And chocolate snacks for dessert. Warren's suggestion." 

"Better give me some before I pass out." 

"In my rooms?" 

Jean gave Ororo an odd look, reached for a bowl of broth. "I like it out here fine. 
You could put a bed under here, put in another skylight…" Jean tipped the bowl 
to her mouth and drank. 

Ororo looked around, at the mulch and dirt spilling out of the beds and onto the 
worn floorboards. The light that filtered into the green house was corrupted by 
dust and grime, and the windows rattled in the panes ever so gently with the 
passing of the wind. 

Truly, the place was on its way to becoming a shambles. 

Jean sneezed. 

"After a thorough cleaning, perhaps?"  Ororo said.

Cradling the bowl in her fingertips Jean spoke to the floor. "Tell me, how did 
Scott survive?" 

"I do not understand." 

"The second time he thought I died. That Phoenix thing. How did he cope? How 
did he live without me," a bitter laugh, "even though he'd been living without me 
and hadn't noticed for how blasted long…" 

"Why do you ask?" 

"I need to know how he did it. How he managed. Because if Scott could do it, 
then I can, too." Jean bent her head over her bowl of broth, tears dropping from 
her eyes and into the fragrant liquid. "I miss him." 

*** 

Bobby watched as Storm carried the tray off to Jean, and wished he had thought 
of it first. Not only would it be a nice gesture, but a perfect excuse to escape the 
large number of Scott's friends and acquaintances. 

Bobby sighed, and went to get another drink. Leave it to Scott Summers to find a 
way to make the X-Men work like dogs even when he was no longer their to 
order them to do it. Scott just had to go and leave a good impression on zillions 
of people, forcing the X-Men to clean the house in anticipation of their arrival and 
then circulate among them. It wasn't easy, being an X-Man. 

But the hardest part was not crying. 

Bobby'd be going along just fine, saying all that was usual- yes, thank you, he'll 
be sorely missed, he was like a brother to me, hey, there's a bug on your face, 
let me get it for you... and then all of the sudden someone would say something 
really nice, and Bobby's chin would start quivering, and he would know that if he 
didn't excuse himself quickly he'd burst into tears and create a very 
embarrassing scene. 

Of course, if girls burst into tears, it wasn't embarrassing at all.  There were times 
he wished he was a girl. Then again, the last time he had voiced that opinion, 
Rogue had given him a very odd look. 

Looking at the last few drops in his glass, Bobby briefly considered going up to 
talk to the Professor, who had talked to guests for about five minutes, and then 
escaped- neglecting his duties in an uncharacteristic way. The idea was quickly 
discarded, however. Charles Xavier was a great man, and he had an easy time 
giving, but he had extreme difficulty taking anything. Anything including 
sympathy. 

Bobby finished of his drink, and reluctantly went to circulate some more. 

*** 

Dreams of Forge chased Ororo out of her bed. 

In the kitchen, bare hands on her hips, Rogue stood over the sink, cursing it. 

"Rogue?" 

"Hey, Storm." 

"What is the matter?" 

"Dadblatted thing won't work. Done twisted off the handle, tryin' to get water 
outta it. Been at this too long not ta know my own strength." 

Rogue held up the twisted off knob in a hand that shook a little. "Damn." 

"Give it here. Perhaps you haven't stripped it." 

Rogue sniffed loudly, snagged a paper towel from the dispenser and blew her 
nose. 

"Gangway," announced Bobby as he came through the double doors, laden 
down with plates, "comin' through, more dishes for the galleys---O! Where have 
you been? Everyone's been askin' for you." 
  
"Good evening, Robert." She assembled a smile, which brightened when she 
properly fit the handle onto the spigot, "we are solving a minor difficulty." 

He looked from woman to woman. 

"Plumbing problems?" Bobby asked, then kicked himself mentally. "Ah, no pun 
intended." 

Rogue looked puzzled for a moment. "Pun...? oh! Ah get it." She punched him in 
the shoulder, playfully. Which meant less hard than an aluminum bat. "You 
better quit with them puns, sugar, or Ah'm gonna have to punish you." 

"Blast!" said Ororo softly. "Blastblastblast." 

"What is it boss lady?" Rogue asked, going to her side. 

Ororo had her hand on the spigot and had twisted it hard open. Bobby peeped 
around Ororo's shoulder from the side. The pipe coughed and spluttered. A 
single drop plopped out and vanished down the drain. "The water bill," Ororo 
said. 

"Y'all forgot the water bill? How we gonna do all these dishes?" 

"No prob. Rain lady can rain us some water. I can make us and melt us some 
ice." 

"Water for dishes we have. But our facilities, they will not be operating at peak 
efficiency." 

"And a whole lot of guests." Rogue said. "This stinks." 

Bobby manfully mastered the urge to giggle. "There's always port-a-pottys," he 
suggested. 

Rogue was back-stepping out, her boot heels clicking on the linoleum, snatching 
her gloves off the table and jerking a thumb over her shoulder, "Ah'm a gonna 
get on the phone, see what Ah can arrange." 

Ororo stood in the middle of the kitchen. "There used to be curtains on these 
windows, potted plants, pictures." 

"African violets on that window sill," Bobby added, moving his head to indicate 
where the purple flowers once sat. 

"We put in tile after Sabertooth came here - the first time. Put up new wallpaper." 

"I didn't like the new wallpaper. Didn't have the heart to tell Peter. Between you 
and me, I'm glad it's gone." 

"Since Bastion, oh, since the massacre in the Morlock tunnels, nothing has been 
right. And this poor home has taken the brunt of the blows." 

Thinking of Jean Gray, probably asleep in Ororo's bed, and his own hurt Bobby 
disagreed, but not aloud. "How's Jean holding up?" he asked. 

Ororo rubbed her temples at the familiar refrain. Seeing she wasn't going to 
answer, Bobby went on, "I mean, you seem to spend the most time with her. I 
don't suppose you could convince her to come down to see me 'n' Hank 'n' 
Warren at Logan's cabin? I mean, if it wouldn't cause her to go Dark Phoenix to 
be surrounded by the other people who loved him." *And we miss her a lot*, 
Bobby added mentally. 

"You should come see her." 

"Every time we head up she tells us to go away. Really loud. First time gave me 
a headache." 

"She is at a critical point right now. Unsure whether to live or follow Scott." 

"Seems kinda straightforward." Bobby tried not to consider how he'd manage. 
Bad enough losing a big brother, without losing the woman who was like a 
mother, sister and friend, all rolled into one. 

Ororo said nothing, but recalled the events of the other day. Jean had shown up 
above her skylight, still in the pink suit she'd worn to leave the Mansion. The 
Phoenix effect bright around her. 

"Ororo!" Jean Grey had screamed, the telepathic cry driving her to her knees. 
"Ororo!" the sky light had shattered and Jean had caught up the fragments, cast 
them into the forest, killing a dozen trees by scoring the bark through to their 
heartwood. 

"Ororo! They want me to pick out a box! They asked me to put him in a box!" 

And Jean was in her arms, screaming Scott's name. The serenity that had 
enveloped her earlier in the week gone. 

Bobby watched her curiously, and at last said, by way of changing the topic, "So, 
is it just water that we've neglected to pay, or is this more like one of those 
situations where you mortgage all your property, try to pass Go and collect 200 
dollars, and pray that you don't land on the other guy's Boardwalk on your way 
there?" 

"The latter, I think," said Storm. 

"Oh." Bobby said nothing. There was the nagging feeling he should do 
something, but... no. It wasn't expected of him after all, and he'd just mess things 
up. Storm looked particularly downcast, though. He hated to see her look like 
that, she had such a radiant smile and damn good teeth, too. 

"Um... I'll be leaving after the funeral, you know. For an indefinite period," he 
said. 

Storm looked at him abstractedly, nodded as if she was barely aware of his 
presence, and wandered off muttering something about electricity to herself. 

Well, at least she hadn't been muttering about getting the money they needed 
from a bank. 'Cause she sure as hell wouldn't be doing it the legal way. 

Feeling particularly dejected, and ashamed of his own uselessness, Bobby 
stopped the sink. Made a block of ice, put it in the sink, and wandered off, fully 
intending to do at least one useful thing- maybe sweep the floor or something.
  
***


CHAPTER II 

Storm suddenly knew how the X-Mansion felt, with its empty halls, its neglected 
rooms, being fully aware of having done a long difficult job, and having done it 
well, yet with nothing to show for it. Nothing- even less than it had started with. 

No, that thought was unworthy of her. She had a lot more than she had started 
with. But still, with the funeral over, the mourners gone, many of the X-Men gone, 
and only the clutter and the emptiness left, she couldn't help but feel a little 
depressed. 

The worst blow of all had been when Jean had announced her intention to leave. 
Storm had thought she had been making progress- they had been making 
progress. Jean had tried to reassure her, but the fact remained that she was 
going up to Alaska and she didn't know when- or if- she was coming back. 

Storm knew she had to get outside. Suddenly, she broke into a run down the 
empty hall, and skidded to a stop in front of the nearest door. Opening it, she 
saw a familiar figure. 

Remy sat on the porch, squatting on the ground and smoking a cigarette. It was 
reassuring. At least Remy was still here. 

Ororo stepped into the refreshingly cool outdoors, and draped herself over his 
back and hugged him. 

He took a final puff of his cigarette and flicked it over the side of the rail, put his 
hands over her crossed arms. 

"How she doin', petite?" 

*Everyone asks after Jean* Ororo thought. "She is very unhappy, Remy. In truth, 
I do not know how she bears it." 

"She probably doan either." He stood carefully, arching his back in the process 
until Ororo's feet dangled, then straightened so she was back on the ground and 
turned in her arms. 

Touching his nose to hers he, "You ready t' leave dis place?" 

"Not yet. Are you thinking of going?" 

"De air be thick hearabouts. An' I got business." 

"What kind of business?" 

"Business, business." 

"Be careful." 

Remy grinned, "Dere's no fun in dat, chere." 

They linked elbows, stood face to face. "You take care, Stormy. Doan be turnin' 
into mopey mope Stormy-type One-eye cause he ain't here no more.  Hear me, 
chere?" 

She almost smiled. Not often did concern reduce him to baby-talk.

He kissed her between the eyes. 

"Be careful," she breathed. 

"I be back real soon." 

She hugged him tight. Held onto his hand, "Remy, careful." 

He kissed her hand and with a jaunty wave vaulted over the porch railing. 

And she valiantly resisted the urge to yell, *Don't leave me!* after him. 

*** 

Storm entered Xavier's office. It was much more bare than it used to be, the 
warmth of the books and worn carpet gone. Personally, she didn't know how the 
man abided spending such long times it the stifling place. 

She sat down across from Xavier. He was giving her that Look again. The look 
that said that he was thinking something that she really should know about, and 
probably didn't want to know about. Like a psychiatrist who, the moment the 
session was over, was going to recommend to your family that they have 
committed. 

She had to excuse him for the unintentional affront, though. They were all on 
edge, they were all still in mourning, and the mansion was going to fall in on 
them any day now. 

Charles leaned back in his chair, resting his hands on the desk and tenting his 
fingers. "How many X-Men are currently in the mansion?" he asked tiredly. 

Storm scanned her mind. "The mansion is supporting nine currently, Professor, 
including ourselves. Most of the others have left for various reasons." *Most of 
them very spurious.* 

"Ah." He rubbed his eyes. 

"No- eight. Remy left this morning." 

"What?" Charles' tired look vanished. "Remy left?" 

"He will be returning," Storm assured him. 

His wakeful moment passed, and once again the Professor was sitting back, 
listless. Storm sat up straight, but she was just as restless as Charles was. They 
both knew they should be doing something. No doubt, Storm reflected, he had 
those brief bouts of energy, too, when he'd tell himself he wouldn't give up, those 
moments when he felt he could do anything. They lasted about two minutes, 
though. 

She could remember a time when those moments would last for days. Years. 
The better part of a lifetime. 

And then it slipped away in a few seconds. A few crucial, fatal seconds. 

"Let's do this later," said the Professor, rubbing his eyes again. They were words 
Storm had never heard before on his lips. 

"Yes. The work does seem to be piling up. I had better attend to it." And there, 
words she had never thought to hear on her own lips. 

The Professor nodded, Storm nodded. She rose and left. The work was piling 
up. 

*** 

Kitty descended the stairs to talk with Storm, and maybe help with the laundry. 
"Hi, I just thought-" she began, but stopped as she reached the bottom of the 
staircase. Storm was nowhere in sight- no, there she was, lying in a pile of 
clothing recently emerged from the dryer. 

"Ya know," said Kitty lightly, "my mother used to tell me not to do that, 'cause it 
wrinkles the laundry." 

Storm sat up partially, and said icily, "Really? How odd. *My* mother never told 
me anything like that. I wonder why not." 

Kitty blinked at this unexpected coldness, and decided she had better tread 
carefully. 

"Ah- I was just wondering if I could help with the laundry..." 

"No, not really," replied Storm, standing up and looking remorseful. "I am sorry I 
replied like that, Kitten, but I have come to the realization that you cannot run the 
washing machine without water." 

"So you're putting everything through the dryer instead?" Kitty asked, bemusedly. 

Storm sighed. "Perhaps I'm not getting enough sleep." 

"Maybe you need to talk to someone," Kitty offered, slowly. "Why don't you come 
outside and walk with me?" 

"I could not possibly," said Storm, walking past Kitty and starting up the stairs. 
"There is too much to be done, I'd be driven insane by inactivity. Perhaps I 
should start delegating tasks." 

"That's a good idea," Kitty called after her. "Make Pete and Kurt do something 
messy. They're starting to get on my nerves..." Ororo was out of earshot now, 
and Kitty began to follow her, but then thought better of it. It was starting to get 
rather chilly upstairs, and the laundry looked very warm and inviting. 

Kitty plunked down and curled up in it. 

Meanwhile, Storm went in search of someone, anyone, to do her bidding. They 
needed to collect their efforts, if they wished to accomplish anything. 

She found Rogue and Nightcrawler discussing something in what would have 
once been easily identifiable as the living room. Ominously, they both fell 
instantly quiet as she entered the room. 

"Hey, 'Ro. How're things goin'?" Rogue asked, sympathetically. 

"They could be worse," Storm admitted. "We have to call a meeting. Where is 
Logan? For that matter, where is Marrow?" Her voice grew more impatient. "I 
have not seen that girl in the longest of times!" 

"You might note," Kurt said blandly, "that you haven't seen Piotr in just as long a 
time. The two went on an outing this morning, and have yet to return." 

"How tiresome," said Storm, annoyed at having her two minute bout of energy 
interrupted by another's actions. She regarded them critically, and at last said, 
"Well, we will hold a meeting without those two then. Be in the War Room in a 
quarter hour." 

She stormed off, either not noticing or choosing to ignore the look that Kurt and 
Rogue exchanged. 

Fifteen minutes later, Rogue, Nightcrawler, and Shadowcat were assembled 
punctually in the War Room. The Professor and Storm entered, and, about ten 
minutes later, Wolverine arrived. No one reproached him for his lateness. 

"The first and foremost concern is the financial," said Storm, in her usual soft yet 
sonorous tone. "We cannot hope to accomplish anything if we do not attend to 
the basic necessities of life." 

"As in, running water?" snorted Rogue. 

"As in a TV," suggested Kitty. 

"How do you intend to go about this?" interjected Kurt. 

"I'm afraid the financial is not my forte," admitted Storm. "A loan, perhaps?" 

"How would we pay it back? None of us have any source of income." 

"Why don't we all get jobs?" said Rogue brightly. 

"Regardless," the Professor broke in, "we have been neglecting basic training 
lately. This should not be allowed to happen." The last was said directly to 
Storm. She nodded. 

Now Logan spoke up, for the first time. "We're too used to having tons of money 
backing us up no matter what we do, Chuck. But lots of people get by on a lot 
less than we have now." He snorted. "And if we get real desperate, 'Ro or 
Gumbo can always steal us some." 

"I'm not even going to consider that idea jokingly," said the Professor. "We have 
a duty to abide by the law, and maintain a good reputation, both in word and 
spirit." 

"Oh, yeah," said Kitty, "and being known as the stinky people who never take a 
shower will really contribute to our reputation as upstanding citizens." 

"We seem to be arguing in circles," sighed Kurt. 

They all sat for a moment, each waiting for someone else to offer a reasonable 
solution. "I trust in your ability to come upon a reasonable solution," said Charles, 
"so, if you'd excuse me, I have some letters to write." 

The Professor disappeared out the door. After a moment of silence, Kitty raised 
her hand. "I vote we go with Logan's idea. Go steal us some money, Storm." 

"You know we cannot do that, Kitten," Storm sighed. "I am sure there is a simple 
answer to this difficulty." 

"There always is," said Kurt. 

"But at this moment in time," Kitty finished glumly, "none of us seems to care 
enough to find it." 

***

Bobby hoped that the X-Men were having a better time than he was. He could 
just see it: they'd be fixing up the house, getting the team into shape. It'd be like 
a montage sequence- there'd be catchy music in the background, and two weeks 
worth of work would be shown in a matter of five minutes. And there would be an 
immense feeling of satisfaction at the end. In fact, the team would be stronger 
and better than ever before, and he wasn't there to see it. Of course, he'd 
probably just mess things up. It was a special talent of his. He'd even wrote it on 
a job application once. *Good at messing things up*. He hadn't really wanted the 
job, anyway. 

Bobby hadn't even been home for a day yet, and already he was starting to feel 
like a failure. No, his parents weren't mean or anything. In fact, they were 
painstakingly kind, supportive, and sympathetic. Even his father. 

There was no way for them to know it, of course, but it left him with a distinct 
sensation he couldn't breathe. 

He strolled aimlessly down the grocery aisle, and tried to remember what his 
mom had asked him to pick up for her. She had told him to write it down, but he 
had assured her he could remember. It proved to be partially true; he could 
remember that it started with a 'P'. 

*Pickles. Pork. Pimientos.* 

He'd have to find a job. That was the first order of business. He just couldn't 
bring himself to leech off his parents any longer. So, what was he qualified for 
besides accounting and demolition work? Working in a fast food place? 

*Port. Peppermint. Parcheesi. Potatoes.* 

Well, maybe something a bit more professional. He'd start looking tomorrow. 
Today was his day off. 

*Peppercorn. Pandas. Potassium.* 

*Damn* it. There could only be so many P-items in a grocery store. If he checked 
on all of them, it would have to click eventually. Or he could just buy everything in 
the store that began with 'P'. He could just picture his mom's face. *Hey, I spent 
a thousand or so dollars so I didn't have to make another trip. Hope you can find 
a use for it all.* 

*Peas. Paltyrrhyne. Perimysium.* 

This was getting him nowhere. He was doomed to wander the grocery store 
forever, in search of... 

Margarine. 

She had wanted *margarine*. 

He was only a few letters off, actually. 

Bobby got some margarine, and went over to the checkout counter. 

His mom was working diligently in the kitchen when he got home. In fact, most of 
his recent memories of her involved her in the kitchen. He have to get her out of 
there, soon, and get to know her again. Lots of people got to know their parents 
better once they were adults, some people even became friends with their 
parents. Yeah, so Bobby had gotten to know his dad fairly well after that horrible 
event a while back, but his mom was still a cypher. A cypher who cooked a lot. 

He sat down at the kitchen table, since his mom seemed to like to have 
someone to talk to while she cooked. 

"So, how's the team getting along after that horrible accident?" she asked, with 
surprising insight. 

"Okay, I guess. Everyone was holding up fine when I left, at least." 

Maddie Drake pulled something out of the freezer and set it on the counter to 
thaw. "The news of your friend's death upset your father a lot, you know." 

"Know, I didn't. Why was he upset?" 

"Well, he worries about you, you know, and this is just another example of the 
dangers involved in the job you do." She began chopping tomatoes. "So, how 
long are you going to stay this time? A week? Two?" 

"Huh? I thought a lot longer..." 

His mother looked at him aghast. "But don't you have to be getting back to your 
team? Not that I don't love having you hear, but I thought you loved it." 

"Well, yeah, it's just that I..." His mother had never been his greatest confidante, 
but, dammit, he needed to be candid with someone. "I don't think I can do much 
good there." 

Maddie snorted. "Of course you can, Bobby. Anyway, I've been so proud of you, 
and what you're doing..." 

"You have?" 

"Yes." His mom turned towards him, and he was surprised to see a distinct 
twinkle in her eye. "After all, it's not every mother who gets to have a son in a line 
of work as interesting as yours." 

Well, he knew he had inherited his sense of humor from *one* of his parents. 
And it wasn't his dad. 

"Your father's gotten to be proud of you, too. Except the worrying. But Willie's 
always been a worrier." 

"Yeah, I've noticed." 

"So," his mother repeated, "when will you be going back?" 

Bobby looked thoughtful. "I dunno. A week." He smiled at his mother. "Or maybe 
less." 

"Good," she said, with a satisfied nod, then added, "Not that I mind having you 
here..." 

"It's okay, Mom. I know." 
  
  

CHAPTER II.5

Ororo mentions not going on with leadership.

Marrow and Peter and Kitty start training on the really deadly arts.  Jean leaves.




CHAPTER III 

Storm had a headache. 

She didn't usually get headaches. They were such a nebulous, self-indulgent 
affliction, and she was against them on principle. This one hurt too much to 
ignore however, and she was even more on edge that day than usual. 

Everything was spiraling downward into chaos. She began to understand why, 
but the knowledge didn't help much. 

Previously, no matter how angry, how upset she got, their had always been a 
little pocket of calm fearlessness deep down inside. The eye of the storm, for 
lack of a more original metaphor. She wasn't quite sure if it was her own self-
confidence, or the reassurance she gained from her religion, or the knowledge 
that she was fighting for the side of right, or a mixture of many things, but it had 
always been there. Scott's death had somehow offset that little ball of certainty, 
though, and suddenly she could be sure of nothing. 

It might have regenerated itself soon, had it not been for all the other factors 
which prevented it from doing so. She vaguely remembered a quote- something 
to do with sorrows not coming in single spies, but in battalions. How true. If there 
was a kind of problem you could have- emotional, mental, economical- she had 
it. No, that wasn't it true. At least she still had her health. She suppressed a bitter 
laugh at this reflection. 

There were two particular people who were especially tormenting her, albeit 
unintentionally. One of them was Xavier. Charles seemed unimpressed by her 
leadership as of late. Of course, Ororo was unimpressed with her own 
leadership, but the man could show a bit of understanding every now and then. 

Then there was Forge. Dear, sweet, condescending, obnoxiously persistent 
Forge. He had called twice to ask after her, and unfortunately for him, he 
did not show to his best advantage during phone conversations. If he had 
come in person she might have had trouble resisting the raw intensity concealed 
by his impassive facade, but as it was she could only view him as a solicitous 
relative who she wished would mind his own business. 

She hadn't completely lost her touch, not at all. She was at this moment running 
the house on the basis of the strictest economy, and there seemed no danger of 
starving soon. In fact, she had even been able to get the water back, and the 
general consensus was that Ororo was doing a pretty good job of keeping 
things under control... Now if only she could get her own mind and 
emotions back to their former state of organization. Every time she saw the 
layers of dust on the furniture, or the paint peeling of the walls, or the empty 
rooms all around, she found it difficult to repress a shudder. 

A knock sounded at her door, and Kitty slid through before Storm could answer. 
She smiled rather sheepishly at Ororo, and the older woman sighed. "What is it 
now?" 

"Well, I wouldn't be bugging you except Kurt and Peter have taken Marrow 
somewhere, with the ostensible purpose of doing you a favor by getting 
out of your way.  And I think Kurt intends to do a few things in town. And 
Logan's down in his cabin, or hunting down his dinner, or whatever the man does 
at this time of day. But the point is..." 

"Oh, no, do not discuss the point on *my* account, Kitten. Please, ramble on for 
a little while longer." 

Kitty pressed her lips together at Storm's sarcasm, and said curtly, "Basement's 
flooded." 

Storm looked relieved. "Oh, that does not matter. There was nothing down there 
of importance..." 

"And the water's rising," Kitty interjected. "Plus, we just moved some papers and 
old furniture down there." 
  
Ororo's relieved look vanished. "Goddess! What possessed you? We do not 
exactly have furniture to spare, and you decide to move it down to the 
basement? And papers?" 

"It was threadbare and stained," Kitty began weakly, "and the papers weren't 
exactly of immediate importance," but Storm didn't stay to listen. Instead she was 
out the door, and Kitty had to run after her to offer to phase her downstairs. 

*** 

Though there were gathering clouds, it was neither snowing nor raining nor even 
very windy outside the mansion, which was probably a good sign, Bobby 
reflected. Storm must have things under control. 

He made his way up the front steps, grateful no one had seen his arrival. He 
really didn't feel like talking to anyone quite yet- at least, not any of the people 
who were currently residing at the X-Mansion. 
  
The door was unlocked. Well, that saved him about ten minutes of searching for 
his keys. He pushed through, and stood a moment in the hall, to rest his arms 
after carrying his suitcase for so long. He peeled some paint off the chipping 
wall, and then began to scratch at it until it the paintless areas spelled out 
'Bobby'. He glanced down the hall, glanced at the stairs he would have to carry 
his suitcase up, and decided resting a little longer wouldn't hurt. So he added, 
'wuz here' and a drunk smiley face. 

"Bobby?" He looked ahead Katherine Pryde coming up through the floor. He was 
positive she existed just to make him feel immature and useless. When they had 
recruited her, she had seemed just another bubbly mutant teen, but somehow 
she had surpassed him in maturity and skill around the age of fifteen. Damn her 
high IQ and ninja training. 

"You just got back? That means you haven't done anything to make Storm angry 
yet, right?" Kitty asked, her tone caught between anxiety and hopefulness. 

"Uh, I don't think so." 

"Good." Kitty alighted beside him and propelled him in the direction of the 
basement stairs. "Then maybe you can help her without her telling you you're 
doing everything wrong." 

They reached the entrance of the basement and she added, in a rush, "Thanks a 
lot. I'll take your suitcase up for you, 'kay? Uh... good luck." She floated up to the 
ceiling, and disappeared from view. 

After a moment's bemused hesitation, while he glanced around at some damp 
furniture and file cabinets that surrounded the basement entrance, Bobby 
opened the cellar door and descended. Downstairs, he could see the sheen of 
water covering the floor. Flooding. 

The cellar had never been extremely well-lit, but today it was even less so than 
usual. Only a single bulb was functioning, and Storm stood by it, hands on her 
hips, muttering in a foreign language what were obviously curses. The water was 
up to her knees, and Bobby's first thought was that she had been extremely 
angry and created a mini-storm in the basement. The idea was immediately 
discarded as ridiculous though. This was just your average case of flooding, no 
superpowers or magic portals involved. 

He reflexively iced up his legs before launching into what were probably icy 
waters, not that he could tell. "Hey, Boss Lady. Let me say, that even when 
you're exhausted, pissed off, and sopping wet, you still look divine." 
  
"Robert?" Her annoyed look vanished, to be replaced by one of confusion. "What 
are you doing here?" 

His mind went through a few possible answer, mainly flippant or joking, but from 
the look of it Storm wasn't in the mood for jokes. So he replied, "My mom didn't 
want me," the private joke of course passed over Ororo's head. "She told me to 
go make myself useful. So here I am." He glanced around at the water. "Can I, 
ah, make myself useful?" 

"I doubt it," she sighed. "You would think that in a house filled with novel and 
unlikely superpowers, one would have the ability to dry up water, but that is not 
the case." 

"Could't Kitty just phase it out? Or would that cause an atomic explosion or 
whatever?" 

"I am not quite sure, and I really have no desire to find out." 

Bobby stood there a moment, at a loss for what to do or say, but Storm's 
increasing agitation was palpable, and grew more so with each moment of 
inactivity. So he said at last, to waylay her imminent explosion, "I don't see what 
standing down here, getting soaked is going to do for you." 

"Nothing," she hissed. "Absolutely nothing! This house is the most tiresome, 
tedious building ever erected on this planet! And, as if I have not been tormented 
enough, my legs are numb!" The last statement was in a tone of righteous 
indignation, and her voice squeaked up on the word 'numb'. He only just bit back 
an enthusiastic exclamation of 'I'll carry you, then!' 

Since Ororo was obviously beyond the help of reason, Bobby took her arm, and 
made soothing noises. "Look, 'Ro, I've got an idea, okay? Don't glare at me like 
that. Here's my plan: you go change into something dry. Then we will go into 
Salem Center, and sit down at a cafe, get you something hot to drink, and you'll 
tell me all about everything that's been going on, okay?" 

Storm shook her head as they emerged from the basement. "I can't, there are 
too many things to attend to." 

"Then make Kitty do them." 

"I had better..." 

"Come with me. Please. I need to know what's going on." 

"The cafe's around here are much to expensive," countered Storm in a dream-
like voice. "And there's so much to do. We never truly appreciated the combined 
efforts of Jean and the cleaning service." 

"We'll spend no more than eight dollars," Bobby assured her, addressing the first 
of her concerns. "Eight dollars for a brief moment of sanity for you. Sound 
good?" 

"Hmmm," replied Storm. 

Bobby lead her on. He had handled people like this before. In Rogue especially. 
Even Hank, the tireless doctor, would occasionally go robotic on him, and 
Bobby'd have to drag him away and force feed him Twinkies. Of course, 
Twinkies probably would not be greatly appreciated by Storm, but the principle 
was the same. She'd be back to her old self in awhile, still bemoaning the 
amount of work to do, but at least able to do it. 

*** 

"So Jean and Remy *both* left. They had their reasons, but I can't help wish 
that... And Logan has been a great help, actually, as have all the X-Men. It is 
certainly not their fault that I seem unable to keep my head on straight." 

Bobby and Ororo were sitting in a cafe downtown- since that's where most of the 
cafes in Salem Center were located- and drinking cappuccino and herbal tea, 
respectively. They had been there for almost half an hour, and, despite her initial 
impatience to get back to the mansion, Storm now felt no inclination to hurry. 
While she was careful not to complain or pour out to many of her innermost 
thoughts, it was quite a relief to talk to someone as undemanding as Bobby, with 
no rebukes, pity, or false sympathy to give her. 

"Sounds like you've been having a hell of a time," he said, when she at last 
finished explaining just how it wasn't anyone's fault that she was so on edge. "As 
I see it, the crux of the matter is money." She shook her head at this, but he 
waved her down. "Hear me out, 'kay? There are two main changes that have 
occurred recently. Number one is Scott's death. Number two is that we're poor 
as dirt. Now, there's not a damned thing we can do about Scott's death..." She 
watched him intently, wondering if his flippancy was sincere, or just a way to 
cover his grief. "But we can do something about the money." 

"As I have already told you, Robert. I am doing all I can. Unfortunately for us, 
many transactions involving virtual money also necessitate proof of credibility, 
and an ability to pay back the virtual money. I don't see that in our near future." 

"If I were you," he said, apparently undaunted, "I'd make everyone go get jobs. 
You're in a position of power, Boss Lady. Use it to your advantage! Make 'em all 
pay!" 

"This is why, Robert," she replied tiredly, "*you* are not in a position of authority." 

He looked a little embarrassed, but, as usual, sprang back up. After all, she 
reflected, Robert Drake would have been crushed under the weight of derisive 
comments long ago if not for his amazing resilience. He grinned sheepishly, 
"Yeah, well I probably would manage to start a civil war, or a revolution. But back 
on topic- money. Right. Why don't you take advantage of one of our many rich 
friends?" 

"I can hardly ask Warren to give us money. The Professor would agree, it is 
beneath us." 

"No, not Warren. God, you guys are dense when your pride's involved." 
Unreasonably annoyed by this comment, Storm only just managed to bite back a 
comment to the effect of, At least we have some pride. Now that would have 
been beneath her. Bobby continued, "Emma Frost. She's enough of a 
businesswoman that you wouldn't be indebted, and enough of friend that 
she wouldn't be pushing you about paying her back." 

"I admit," said Ororo, her anger assuaged, "that it did pass briefly through my 
mind, but sometimes I forget about Emma..." 

"I don't," said Bobby. Storm looked up, with the intention of catching his eye, 
but he was staring into his coffee cup. Poor man, he tried so hard, he always 
had... even though, so often, he didn't want the others to see it. 

She took a sip of tea, and when she looked up, he was staring right at her. She 
raised her eyebrows questioningly, and he started. "Oh, sorry! Just thinking." 
Watching her, his face broke into an irresistible smile. "And, you know what? I 
think the future just got a bit more promising." 

*** 

Ororo, wrist deep in dishwater, stood with one slender foot hooked behind an 
even more slender ankle. She wore linen, green as ice-cream, and an intricate 
head-band held back her hair. 

She was getting the breakfast things ready for the dish washer and staring out 
the window at the lawn. The newly laid sod was velvety looking beneath the 
silver of dew and the complicated shadows cast out of the sky. 

And what a sky. 

It was enormous. Brilliant with light and loaded with many clouds, Leviathan-like 
cumulo-nimbus and feathery cirrus tracking sunshine and weaving through blues 
so pale they almost weren't. Far in the east distance the sky was powerful with 
white and gray. 

Ororo stared out without expectation, so large the inarticulate feeling in her heart. 
  
The creak of Remy's new leather jacket gave away his entrance. He had 
returned sometime during the night, and his presence had added to general 
contentedness Ororo was feeling since Bobby had gotten a loan. Remy leaned 
his arms on the counter beside the double-sink and said, "What's up, p'tite?" 

"It is a good morning. Or perhaps the end of a good evening?" Ororo asked. 

"Non," Remy replied. "Perfect day f' a ride. Your doing?" 

"No." She rinsed dishes and stacked them in the second sink. "Do you 
remember climbing the twin arches on a day such as this?" 

"You couldn't tell if the sky was gonna split open water on us or not!" 

Ororo did not like to be reminded of the limitations of her second childhood, but 
her flashing tip-tilted eyes were gentle. 

Remy said in an imperious and high-pitched voice, "I'm queen of the mountain!" 

"I was." 

He nudged her, "Want we do it again? Float down the Big Muddy to New 
Orleans?" His red on black eyes were mostly unreadable, but the curve of his 
mouth, the lift of his eyebrows lent earnestness to his otherwise cavalier 
expression. "We had us some grand times, chèrie." 

Lifting a glass from the water and shaking it out, her smile widening Ororo said, "I 
thought you had forgotten." 

Straightening, Remy lifted his hands in a half shrug Ororo couldn't read. They 
made quick work of the plates and silverware. Remy humming a zydeco melody, 
Ororo moving her head to the rhythm of the song, but otherwise standing still; but 
Remy, the same man who made her waltz to a rock song because he claimed it 
was the only step he knew, let his slim hips rock with the tune. 

"We had us some real good times, Stormy," Remy said leaning down to pull 
open the dish washer door. 

"But not to be repeated, I am afraid." 

Gambit stopped what he was doing, leaned a hand on his knee. "Afraid. You 
used to never say dat word when it was just you and me." 

"I was." 

"Non. Frightened. Dat the word you used." They both had been. 

"But you were with me," Ororo said, her voice was softer still. The glass she held 
in her hand, stayed in her hand. 

"It's not so far away, Stormy. New Orleans." Gambit took the glass from her, 
stood it in his sink. "Lot's of laughs. A little trouble..." he had his game grin on, 
wicked and sweet all at once. 

"Laissez les bons temps rouler?" 

"Oui." 

"I cannot." 

"Stormy-" 

"And do not call me by --- must I say it in French? Ki-swahili? Skrull?" 

Remy stood there, the dishtowel twisting in his gloved hand. His finely cut mouth 
turned down at the sides in a true frown. 

"And save your pout for someone else." 

His hand darted low. 

Her wet hand deflected the slap. "You dare?" 

Once, twice, the twisted up dish-towel flicked forward. Caught her on the thigh 
before Ororo snatched it still. 

"Enough!" she cried. 

Pulling hard Remy demanded, "Whatcha gon' do-" he let go - "if I do it again?" 

"You dare not," she said, laughing, blocking his hands, but he was singing, 
voiced cracked and wavery, "I'm Remy the rake, I yem, I yem," and caught her 
good and stinging on her ass. 

Ororo grabbed for him, Remy scooted back on his toes, flinging his arms up into 
the air, twisting at the hip. Whirling, Ororo fell forward, and grabbed for the table. 
Spit hair out of her mouth. 

Their eyes locked. His, brilliant sherry centered black, were laughing. 

He had her headband in his grip. 

"Impossible man!" 

Grinning Remy dashed out the door. 

Hard on his heels, Ororo followed. 

The door swung shut behind them catching the hem of her skirt. 

There was a rude noise of woven threads parting. Then nothing but old kitchen 
sounds. Water dripping from the faucets into the sink. The click time-pieces 
keeping time. The slide of a magnet down the refrigerator door. The thrum of the 
refrigerator. The swush of the opening dining room door. 

"Hello?" said a light voice and Bobby entered. Spotting the dropped dishtowel on 
the floor, picked it up and walked over to the window. He looked out, and 
whistled at what he saw. Gambit dancing like a monkey, on the green lawn, 
waving a complicated headband at the normally elegant Storm. Her hair was a 
torrent of white, blowing every which way, her mouth furious with imprecations. 
She was as fast if not as sleek as Gambit, her narrow dress interfering with her 
natural grace. Sunshine flashing off the bangle around her ankle and her bare 
feet twisting and digging in the grass. 

No bra of course. 

He had noticed quite some time ago that Storm rarely wore a bra. Not that he 
minded in the least. 

Stretching so he could keep Storm and Gambit in view, Bobby got a mug down 
from the cabinet, rinsed it in the tap. He winced as Storm's feet tangled in her 
sun-dress. Chuckled as she fell. 

Quick, she pushed herself up by her hands and swung both legs into the back of 
Gambit's knees. 

Gambit dropped. Bobby laughed out loud. Storm pulled herself atop Gambit and 
pinned his hands to the ground. 

The two lay there for what seemed like an awfully long time. They hugged. 

Bobby turned his back to the window, biting down a bit of envious wistfulness, 
and reached over for the Mr. Coffee, and poured himself the muddy last of what 
looked like the morning's first brew. 

He took a sip. 

"Yagh." 

He sniffed the cup and took another. No improvement over the last sip, but hell, 
it was caffeine, and that was enough for him. 

The outside door was pulled open and the Storm Bobby knew re-entered. 

For maybe half a second, no more than that, she was supermodel superhero, 
too sexy for the kitchen and everything in it. Standing tall with a deadly tilt to her 
hips and not even breathing hard, an utterly expressionless Robert Palmer girl 
expression on her face, her complicated headband set perfectly on her 'glorious 
mane,' shoulders straight and back, chest high, neck longer than a giraffe's. 

A set of keys dangled from her fingers. 

"Hey, Rain Lady." 

"Hello, Robert. Do you by any chance know how to ride a motorcycle?" 

He grinned, and glanced at the keys again, this time fully aware of their import. 
"Ah, no... can you?" 

"I have a vague idea. But now I have the material necessary to learn, do I not?" 
She smiled, a brilliant, impish smile that Bobby would have loved to have 
directed at him. It was partially directed at him, though, and that was good 
enough. "I want to thank you for handling that loan. It is a relief not to have to 
bother the Professor with such details." 

Bobby blinked at this modest thanks. Looked down at his arms. Made like to look 
at his ears. 

"Of course," she added, "it also means that we can at last begin the hard work. 
You will help me get everything and everyone started, won't you, Robert?" 
  
He had intended to help as much as possible, of course, but he hadn't expected 
Storm to request his help. She must have seen the pleased surprised in his 
eyes, because, when he replied, "Of course!" her smile grew even wider. Then 
she started off towards the door. "Robert, would you by any chance like a 
crash-course in motorcycling?" 

"Why do I think you mean that literally?" he asked, following her nonetheless. 

***

"I really don't know. My adult live has revolved around the X-Men. Hell, did I say 
revolved? My life *was* the X-Men. I guess I could become an accountant or 
something if I left." He was silent for a moment, but Storm only licked her ice and 
said nothing, so he went on, "If I were a woman, 
of course, I could get married and be a housewife. But you can't be a 
househusband. It undermines your manliness. Anyway, as Hank and Rogue 
would be quick to point out, you have to find a woman who wants to marry you 
first. That might prove a challenge." Storm shook her head slightly, smiling 
mysteriously, but offered no reply. 

"I think I'd like to be a dad, though," Bobby babbled. "You probably wouldn't think 
so, but I think I'd be good at it. The kids'd love me, I have a rapport with people 
under twelve. Their mom'd learn to hate me though. I can just imagine it- 'For 
God's sake, Bobby,'" he said in a shrill falsetto, "'what on *Earth* possessed you 
to teach our two-year-old to write his name in lighter fluid and set it on fire?'" 
Storm snorted, and Bobby smiled. "Of course, by the time they were thirteen, 
they'd be immensely embarrassed by me. So maybe it's better if I don't have 
kids." 

Storm stifled a smile, and, after a moment of silence, finally felt compelled to say 
*something* in response to all of this. "There is, of course, the matter of 
genetics." 

"Yeah, but can't they just check for mutations before the baby is formed?" 

"Well..." 

"Then again, I don't think I could do that to a kid. I mean, what if they were going 
to have the power of flight? Or to shapeshift? Or make money appear out of thin 
air? You just can't take that away from a kid." 

"You could always adopt," Storm suggested.. 

"Yeah, I could." They paused as Storm went over to a nearby trashcan to 
balance her cup precariously on the top of a pile of other refuse, and continued 
on. 

"So," said Bobby, cautiously, "what about you? You've got to have plans. You 
can't make me believe you're as negligent as I am when it comes to the future." 

"I really don't know what I would do if I left the X-Men. I am a woman of many 
talents," she mused, "but few of them are legal." 

Bobby eyed her nervously. "Y'know, I'm just *not* gonna touch that one." 

Storm laughed, a brief, throw-back-your-head laugh. She looked glorious. "Well," 
she said, "if all else fails, perhaps I will run off with Remy." 

He bit his lip, and said, earnestly, "Oh, don't do that." 

She eyed him sharply, then shrugged. "To be honest, the life of a thief has little 
appeal at the moment." 

Bobby caught up her hand impulsively. "Good. Then stay here. Scott'd be 
ashamed of you, talking of escape like this. I signed up so I could be in a place 
where people wouldn't try to beat the crap out of me every day- well, not without 
apologizing, at least- but it became something quite different long ago. It's home, 
no matter what changes may occur." 

She smiled at him, and returned his grip. "We can't bring your old home back, 
Robert, but we can make it beautiful again." 

"Well, *you* can," Bobby amended, releasing her hand and looking at her with 
something like pride. "Me and the others, we can just try to make sure the roof 
doesn't collapse any time soon." 

His ears had gone a little pink in that endearing way of his, and he began to 
babble again. Storm listened with half an ear. He was right, she belonged here. 
Scott wouldn't have just been ashamed of her thoughts of running away, he 
would have been angry at himself for leaving so poor a legacy. *We will make it 
work,* she thought, a silent promise to Scott's spirit, which she knew only too 
well still watched over them. *The team will be a tribute to you, and the mansion 
a monument. We may not be perfect, but, Goddess knows, we are strong.* She 
glanced over at Bobby, who had fallen silent, and was staring at his shoes as he 
walked. *Some of us more than we know,* she added, silently. 
 
  

CHAPTER IV 

Had Ororo been a child, she would have been skipping at the moment. As it was, 
her steps still held a little bounce. Bobby, seeing her coming down the hall, 
smiled fondly at her and said, "Things going well?" 

"So so," she said primly. "What would make you say such a thing?" 

"Oh, I dunno. It's just that, where I come from, we smile when we're happy." 

"You must come from a very odd place, Robert," Storm replied. "I use my smile 
to symbolize inner turmoil." 

He grinned. "No, honest, something good happen?" 

"Not really," she admitted. "I think my cheerfulness is a combination of things- 
one being the fact that we have money," his grin widened slightly, "and the other 
being that Forge gave me a lovely gift. Well, he would not have it seen as such- 
a favor for him, he said. But that cannot change the fact that it is a gift, no matter 
what his modesty makes him say." He had , in fact, sent her a gorgeous orchid. 
Said a friend had given it to him, and it would soon die if didn't receive nurturing 
care. Care, the note added, which he certainly couldn't provide. 

Bobby's grin had vanished, and his face was studiously blank. She gave him a 
questioning look. "Something wrong?" 

"No, not at all. Just thinking... Excuse me, I have something to do." 

She nodded bemusedly to him, then continued in the opposite direction, on to 
her conference with Xavier. 

She knocked, then poked her head in. "You called, Charles?" 

He looked up from some papers through which he was browsing. "Ah, yes Ororo. 
Sit down, please." She did, and he finished browsing his papers before he 
started speaking. 

"In light of recent events, I think it best to reconsider the leadership of this team. 
You and Scott provided excellent balance for one another, but some of our worst 
failures have occurred when you led alone. Invariably, you'd rely upon Wolverine 
for direction. This has not served us well in the past. You have served as 
competent housekeeper, Storm, but the team is growing less disciplined than..." 
he faltered, and finished, his voice a whisper to himself, "before." 

*You mean when Scott was in charge,* she replied silently. Ororo resented being 
put in the position of defending herself against the accomplishments of a dead 
friend and highly respected colleague. 

"Much has transpired in your absence. Who have you considered as new team 
leaders?" 

"Rogue was raised by the most capable and deadly of professionals. Her skills 
are considerable. We can only assume that Mystique was grooming her for 
leadership before she came to us. Nightcrawler is a different kind of person, but 
his record during his time with Excalibur, failed experiment though it was, is, as 
Katherine has pointed out, exemplary. Shadowcat's, is no less so." 

Pride in his words, but ice in her guts Storm shifted her chin and dared Xavier to 
continue. 

"As for Lebeau.... I can think of no better man, save Kurt, and when all is said 
and done, Kurt is not entirely interested in leading the X-Men." 

Storm snorted, the man who only stayed with the X-Men for her sake, and then 
for love of Rogue.  And then she noticed the tense Xavier had used.

"Will you be willing to help me train and work them, not only in the use of 
application for their powers but as possible successors to you and Scott?" 

Ororo's hands were tented over her lap. Charles had compared her to a 
housekeeper. Were she not, on some level, in awe of Moira McTaggert, she 
might have taken issue with that.

For that matter, Moira might take issue with that.

"Storm?"

"I'll consider it, Charles." 

"I was not aware that this was a democracy." 

St. Elmo's fire sluiced over Storm. Her eyes glazed opaline. 

Ororo stalked past Xavier's wheel chair. Slammed open his study door. Slammed 
it behind her. Stalked past the grandfather clock and a cringing Bobby, stomped 
up the stairs. 

Bobby, still cringing, relaxed his shoulders after a few seconds had passed. 

"What's wrong with you?" asked Kitty in passing. 

"Do you hear rain? Thunder? Lightening?" 

"No." 

"That's funny. I just saw Ororo and she's hopping mad." 

"Define hopping?" 

"Two door slams and a growl when I thought about saying, 'Hey.'" 

Their eyes rolled ceiling-ward. 

Still no lightening. 

Ororo came back down the stairs. Leather pants, leather bustier, leather toreador 
jacket, and evilest, tallest silver black boots she had ever owned. 

"Robert." She said. "Kitten." and slammed out the front door. 

"LEBEAU!" they heard her scream. 

Still no lightening. 

"LEBEAU!!!" 

Still no lightening. Still no rain. 

"Y'know," Kitty began conversationally, "This is not necessarily a good sign." 

Storm spiked a path through the snow to the boathouse. 

Remy was just getting up out of couch. He had a beautiful hangover, and was 
reaching for his couch-side bottle to administer some cure. The front door blew 
open and banged against the wall. 

"Remy," Storm said, standing on the landing. Her eyes raked over the interior of 
the boathouse, took in his condition and the bottle in his hand. She frowned. 

Still no lightening. Still no rain. 

"Give a man a break, Stormy. It be Sunday." 

"I want to leave this place." 

"Where we going?" 

"I go to see Forge." 

Remy made a face. 

"Will you accompany me part way?" 

Gambit tossed his sweaty hair out of his eyes. 

"We leave now. Yes or No?" 

"You dat bent on seeing him?" 

"I'm bent on being anywhere but here." 
  
*** 

The realization had hit Bobby suddenly, like heavenly inspiration. Well, then 
again, it really was neither heavenly or all-that inspired. In fact, no one else 
would have found it in the least interesting, save himself. 

When he had first arrived, a few days back, he had thought that everyone's 
neglect of Storm was selfish, thoughtless, well-nigh criminal, in fact. Just now he 
realized, though, that they had always depended on the weather to tell them 
when Ororo was *genuinely* upset, when she just couldn't take it any longer. 

So everyone else wasn't evil. They just weren't too quick on the uptake. 

Most of his free time was spent watching TV. Bobby had called up Jubilee to see 
if they had any extras. Incidentally, the Gen-Xers did, and Jubilee, sympathising 
greatly with his plight, had had it delivered post-haste. 

Since Bobby had discovered the Tetris feature on the television set, which 
enabled him to play Tetris *while* watching TV, he had been able to spend even 
longer watching it. Even infomercials were no problem, when you had Tetris to 
amuse you. 

He was watching some horrible straight-to-video movie, and playing Tetris, when 
Remy entered. Bobby looked up quickly. "Where's Storm?" 

"She's out wit' Forge," he said. There was disinterest in Remy's voice. Or maybe 
it was disapproval. Bizarrely enough, Bobby hoped it was the latter. It would be 
nice to have an ally in his growing- and, admittedly groundless- dislike for Forge. 
He had never known the man that well. Memories of him consisted mainly of 
Forge playing chess with the Professor, Forge inventing things that defied the 
laws of physics with the greatest possible ease, and Forge breaking Storm's 
heart- or was it vice-versa? 

The last memory seemed to be the key one. 

"What ya t'inkin' 'bout?" Remy asked, regarding him curiously. Bobby looked at 
him just as curiously. After all, it wasn't often the Cajun asked about what was 
going on in his head. 

"I was thinking," Bobby replied slowly, "that we had better waterproof the 
basement, now that it's dried out. After we de-mudify it, I mean." 

Remy nodded, thoughtfully. "Yeah. Suppose we'd better." 

*** 

*Good Lord,* thought Bobby, scouring a stain with his brush, *I'm turning into 
Scott.* 

While Scott had been very disciplined about getting the right balance of sleep, 
food, and exercise, there had naturally been times when the man could not 
sleep. So, being Scott, he would organize, clean, plan, or occasionally write 
poems to Jean, 'cause otherwise Bobby had no idea where the man had found 
the time to do *that*. The poems were written with an interesting mix of emotion 
and painstaking thought, Scott all over. Not that Scott advertised the fact, but 
Jean had mentioned it to Rogue, who had mentioned it to Bobby. 

Having no wife to write poems to, nothing to organize, and since he sucked at 
planning, that left cleaning for Bobby. He was busily scrubbing the entrance hall 
floor, since that's the first place people saw when they came in. 

The door opened, and his back mind added mockingly, *And the hall is also 
where Storm will first enter when she gets back.* 

"Hello, Robert," Storm said, her tone rather lopsided. Not cheerful, not unhappy, 
but unbalanced certainly. "What on earth are you doing? It three AM!" 

"Trying to scrub a hole through the floor, so I can escape through it. Got a picture 
of Rita Hayworth I can cover it with?" 

"If you really wish to scrub a hole in the floor, you should be using steel wool," 
replied Storm. The fact that she didn't give him an odd look or raise her 
eyebrows was a true testament to just how unbalanced she was feeling. "You 
know, I think I am exhausted? Before, I did not have enough energy to become 
exhausted, I was just tired all the time." 

"Well, I'm glad you now have enough energy to stay up late partying," Bobby 
said, only half sincere. 

She was about to respond, when something seemed to catch her eye. "Robert, 
must you write on the walls? The peeling paint mocks me enough without you 
helping it." She shuddered. "It makes me want to pour paint remover on the wall, 
or chip it away with my bare hands." 

"Uh, sorry. Won't happen again. So..." deep breath, "how'd your date with Forge 
go?" 

She gave him an odd look now, and he knew that if she wished she could quell 
him instantly with a reply of, 'It's none of your business.' His heart hammered in 
his throat, hoping she wouldn't say that. 

"That," she replied, choosing her words carefully, "is a very interesting question. 
And one I will be happy to discuss with you when I know the answer." 

On that enigmatic note, she passed by him and on up the stairs. 

*** 

Storm was gone again the next day. 

And the day after that. 

This time, even Remy couldn't tell where she'd gone, and if Logan knew he 
wouldn't tell. Bobby stopped short of asking Xavier to track her down mentally 
and tell him. Instead, he took it upon himself to get the place prettied up. That 
would be a nice surprise for Storm, when she returned. 

Bobby checked out books in the library on interior design. He was sick of seeing 
hand prints and scuff marks on the walls. 

Peter had put pictures up, and there were cartoons from the funny papers taped 
up by the bathroom walls. 

He'd taken down all the crap on the walls, laid newspaper on the floor, and 
begun to paint them nice eggshell white when he heard an unfamiliar tread on 
the stairs. 

"Watch it," he said, "Wet paint." 

Ororo's voice startled him, "I had heard you had begun painting." 

"Who told you?" 

"I've been in touch, Bobby." 

Ororo's hair was short and long all over. She wore grimy jeans, ripped at the 
knees. Jackboots and a beat up leather jacket with an XF decal on the lapel. 

"Ya miss me?" he asked, batting his eyelashes. 

"I missed you greatly." He suppressed a look of surprise- he hadn't expected her 
to take the question seriously. "You must know, Robert, I greatly appreciate what 
you've been doing." 

"You don't need to thank me. I mean, I don't want you to thank me, I'd feel 
insulted. This place is just as much mine as yours." 

"How true. If not more so." He shook his head at that. She went on, "Have you 
heard from Jean?" 

"No. Not since before you left." 

"Ah. I had hoped, well... it is good to be home nonetheless." Her eyes seemed to 
turn inward, the way they did when she was thinking. "We must start a regular 
training schedule soon." 

"Aw, the one thing I *really* didn't miss. I was hoping you guys'd forget 
about training." 

"I'm sorry, Robert." She didn't sound in the least sorry. 

"I was kidding. To be honest, I was meaning to bring it up. I need more training. 
I've really been, I mean I never, haven't..." He couldn't find the right words to say 
what he meant, without embarrassing himself, but from the look in her eyes she 
understood what he meant. *I want to push myself for once in my life. I want to 
be *good* at this, dammit.* 

She brushed her hand against his cheek, soft as a butterfly kiss. He could feel 
his ears turning pink at even that small gesture. He'd be bright red if she stayed 
standing there much longer. 

Fortunately, she immediately bade him good night and turned back up the stairs. 

Damn applying his powers to fighting. He needed to find a way to apply his 
powers to keeping the temperature in his face down, before he really 
embarrassed himself. 

*** 

Storm picked up the phone of the first ring. It was Forge, as she had secretly 
hoped. 

Her... date... with Forge had been strange. It had felt like they were two master 
duelers, suddenly sitting down and offering each other tea. Unsure of whether it 
was a gesture of respect and friendship, or just another interruption to prolong 
the antagonism. At least Forge had seemed just as uncertain as she. She 
was beginning to develop a fondness for throwing Forge off balance, the 
same thing Rogue enjoyed doing to Remy. 

Goddess, she wasn't turning into Rogue was she? What a... frightening 
thought. 

"Ororo?" 

His voice was husky; her breath caught. "Yes?" 

"I have something I need to tell you. I know this is probably a mistake, but do you 
think...do you think we could give it another shot?" 

Storm could feel the ground sliding away from under her, and she grasped at the 
nearest straw that would allow her some semblance of dignity. "Probably a 
mistake?" she asked icily. 

"That came out wrong, didn't it? I mean I expect you to refuse me again, and I'm 
an idiot to try and put the both of us through this. But I have to try..." 

"Nothing ventured, nothing gained," Storm said with a lightness she did not feel. 

"So...?" 

*I cannot handle this right now,* she thought, a smaller voice adding, *I do not 
want to handle this ever...* "Hmm. Come by tomorrow, and we will go out 
someplace. Then we can discuss this." 

"Damn, how can you be so cool about this?" It was rhetorical question, she 
believed, so she did not answer. After a moment he said, "'Kay. Until tomorrow 
then." 

Storm hung up, feeling a little light headed and not a little ill. 


*** 

Ororo walked to the cliff, unfastening her clothing along the way. 

At the edge she looked down, and shrugged out of robe she had slipped on. 
Setting down her jewelry where she could be sure to find it again, she stared 
down at the moonlit pool of water many feet below. 

Moonlight on the water. Starshine above an amphitheater of clouds. Wind sliding 
along her skin and through her hair. Arms an extension of the moment. Heart 
keeping time with the pulse of the earth, the slow exchange of oxygen for carbon 
dioxide in her lungs in sync with the turn of the earth. Caught between ground 
and the starry deep for a moment Ororo was weightless. Her body tilted forward 
and she tumbled from low to low and fell closer to the earth, brought her arms 
forward, lengthened her spine and arced into a dive. 

Bobby on the banks of the pool heard the rushing of wind. He saw a silver white 
streak of her long hair and the tiny splash made by her body. 

He clapped as she came up. 

"Robert?" 

"She dives like an Olympian *and* she can see in the dark," Bobby said 
admiringly. 

"Hopefully better than *you* can see in the dark," Ororo replied, glad for the 
darkness which hid her embarrassment and slight annoyance at having the 
moment ruined. Or maybe she had ruined his moment, she reflected. "I did not 
see you, here," Storm said, swimming to where he sat. "Do you wish me to 
leave?" 

"So," he said hesitantly, "how're you?" 

"Confused." 

"Ah. Finally joining the rest of us in our state of perpetual adolesence? We were 
beginning to wonder whether you really belonged here, what with all your 
confidence and maturity and such." 

"Hardly, Bobby." She laughed lightly, then added softly, "And you do yourself an 
extreme injustice." 

"Huh," said Bobby. 

The expectant silence was attentive as he pulled out handful of handful grass. 
The air became thick with the scent of turned earth. 

Then, when the silence grew too long, he said, "Ignore me." 

With a splish Storm went under and did precisely that. 

"Hey Storm," Bobby called after she had stroked the circumference of the pool 
five times and was treading water in the shallows. 

"Yes?" 

"You believe in a Heaven?" 

Splashing getting louder as she swum near, "Several." 

Bobby took up a blade of grass. It was smooth and perfect between his 
fingertips, paler on one side than another in the moonlight. After a moment he 
said, "That sounds... nice." 

"It is," Storm affirmed, and went back under. 



CHAPTER V 
The phone in the hall had rung twice, and no one had gotten it yet. Maybe that 
was a normal occurrence in some homes, but it was rare in the X-Mansion. 
Bobby looked over at Rogue, next to him on the couch, but she shook her head. 
"Ya get it. Ah'm too tired." Bobby sighed, rose lethargically and slouched over to 
the phone. "Hullo?" 

"Hi... Bobby?" 

Bobby's eyes widened, and he clutched the phone tighter as if it might try to 
escape from his grasp. "Jean, that you?" 

"Yes." 

Apparently he had been too loud, since Storm, passing nearby, paused. "Is that 
Jean, Robert? Let me speak to her!" 

"One sec," said Bobby. "Jean, how have you... um, what've you been up to to?" 

Jean's voice held a rather bitter smile. "Oh, nothing, really. I think I'd better start 
writing the great American novel in order to use my time in solitary confinement. 
Self-inflicted solitary confinement. It's rather ironic. If any of you had lost a loved 
one and were behaving this way, I'd be trying very hard to knock some sense 
into your head." 

*But we have lost a loved one,* thought Bobby. *Two, if you don't come back, 
Jean.* "Give yourself some time," he said, "But not too much, Jean. We miss 
you. Or..." he faltered, "are you ever coming back?" 

"Oh, God, Bobby. I don't know," she said, her voice agonized, as if the sentence 
had been rung out of her. 

"Robert," Storm hissed from behind, "let me talk to her!" 

Bobby motioned for her to wait a moment. "So, did you call for a particular 
reason, or just to talk?" 

"Just to talk. To anyone," she replied in rather desperate tones. 

Logan, who had apparently been using his hypersenses to eavesdrop, entered 
the room, asking, "That Jeannie?" Kitty, close on his heels, looked questioningly 
at Bobby, her eyes mirroring Wolverine's question. 

"Yeah. Quiet people." He sat down on the table that the phone was on, and 
swung his feet listlessly. "Um... anything particular you wanna talk about?" he 
asked Jean. Kitty rolled her eyes, Logan watched expectantly, and Storm 
reiterated her request for the phone. So maybe they could do better in 
comforting they that mourn, but, hell, he *missed* Jean. He wanted to talk to her 
again, even a miserable, broken version of her. 

"Not really," said Jean. "Make me laugh. You were always good at that." 

"Seemed to me you didn't think my jokes were so funny." 

"That's 'cause they weren't," said Rogue, who had apparently risen from the 
couch at last. "Hey, can Ah talk to her when you're done?" Bobby wrinkled his 
nose at her in reply. 

"I was laughing on the inside," Jean said, seriously. "Except, of course, when 
they were played on me. Go on, say something funny." 

*Good Lord, why me?* Well, it was his fault. He could've given the phone to 
Storm, and then he wouldn't be sitting her trying to think of something funny to 
say to a woman who could burst into tears and hang up if he said one wrong 
word. What on earth could he say? How about a joke? A really bad joke would 
do... "So, there's this Princess, right? And everything she touches melts..." 

"Oh, for God's sake," snapped Kitty, "Jean doesn't need to hear lame jokes! 
Storm needs to talk to her!" 

Bobby turned on them, and covered the receiver with one hand. "Just shut up!" 
he yelled. "I want to talk to Jean! I've known her for a helluva lot longer than all of 
you have, anyway." Logan's face went blank, Storm blinked at him a couple of 
times, and Bobby turned back to the phone. "Uh, sorry, Jean, what was I 
saying?" To his surprise, there was a giggle rippling through Jean's voice when 
she answered. "I'm not sure. Who did you just snap at?" 

"Oh, you heard that? Storm and Logan and Kitty and Rogue. They want to talk to 
you, but I..." Bobby paused, suddenly realizing that chances were Jean *would* 
rather talk to any of those three. "Would you like to talk to one of them?" he 
asked in a small voice. 

Jean's voice sounded almost like her old self. "Oh, not at all. I'd much rather talk 
to you. I've known you *much* longer. Tell them to leave you the hell alone. They 
can talk to me later." 

Bobby grinned. "Sure thing. Hey, guys, Jean says to leave me the hell alone, or 
else. She wants to talk to *me*. Moi. Yo. Not any of *you*." He tried not to look 
too smug as the four slunk off, with various degrees of resentment and 
bewilderment reflected on their faces. 

"Bobby," said Jean, "you are shameless, you know that?" 

"They deserved it, trying to hog you like that. Seriously, though, Jean, we need 
you back. I can understand you need time to recuperate, but we need you. 
Storm, especially." He began to chew the knuckles on his free hand. "She 
pretends she's fine, but she's got enough inner confusion to rival any fifteen-
year-old. And that Forge guy isn't helping any. Damn it, can't he tell every word 
that comes out of his mouth is like a hot poker in her stomach? Son of a bitch. 
And then there's Rogue and Nightcrawler, working together to make her feel 
useless. I know they don't *mean* to, but 'Ro's a natural leader. Kurt might be 
suave and all that, but Storm is the kind of leader you lay down your life for. 
She's so confident, and brilliant, and... I'm sorry, Jean, did you say something?" 

"I said you seem to be very passionate about this." 

Bobby was very glad that Jean wasn't there to see him, since his ears were 
turning bright pink. Had he just gone on and on about...? Yeah, he had. And to a 
woman who needed to be comforted, not whined to. *Idiot.* 

"Sorry," he said. "Um... so..." He had already done the 'What have you been up 
to?' and 'What do you want to talk about?' lines, and his conversational 
repertoire wasn't very large, alas. 

Fortunately, Jean came to his rescue. 

"So, what have *you* been up to? Who have you been torturing in Hank's 
absence?" 

"Ya know," said Bobby, rather struck by the revelation, "I haven't been torturing 
that many people lately." 

Jean sounded shocked. "What? Bobby Drake, King of the Not-so-practical Joke 
has been *good*? I must say, I'm deeply ashamed of you." 

"Well," he reflected, "no one seems to mind." 

"They do subconsciously," Jean assured him. "Sometimes, your jokes were the 
only thing that stopped us from forgetting we're human. Scott used to stay up at 
night, thinking of ways to retaliate. Of course, he never went through with them." 
Her voice had grown soft and shaky with unshed tears. Or maybe they were 
shed; he couldn't tell over the phone. Bobby suddenly wished very much that he 
was with her. 

"Jean..." he said, hesitantly, "you wanna, maybe talk about Scott?" 

"Ya know, I don't think so, right now. I need to go, anyway. But, Bobby? The 
moment I feel ready, I'll talk to you, okay?" 

"Okay," he said, very much relieved the question hadn't been a major faux pas. 

"And don't forget the practical jokes. The new kids must be made to suffer." 

"Sure thing, Jeannie." 

"Okay." There was a pause. 

"Well, bye," Bobby said at last. "And... Jean?" 

"Yes?" 

"I love you." 

"I love you, too, Bobby." 

After he had hung up, he turned to see Storm standing nearby. "Oh, 'Ro! Sorry! I 
forgot you had something to say to her..." 

Storm shook her head. "Not at all, Robert." She smiled slightly. "I think you said 
much more than I could have." 

She gave him a firm nod. As she turned around to go, he watched for a moment, 
then croaked out, "'Ro..." 

She paused. "Yes?" 

"I thought I'd maybe go into the city, pick up some stuff. You wanna come?" 

She gazed at him with much more thoughtfulness than such a simple question 
deserved. At last, she shook her head. "I am afraid not. I have some place to be 
this evening." 

"I'd have you back in good time," Bobby persisted. "C'mon, it'd be good for you, 
and you could pick up some things for the mansion. If you want of course. 
*Please*. I mean, it would be boring all by myself." He batted his eyelashes. 

As usual, the effect was more humorous than heart-melting. Storm laughed, but 
agreed.  She had to admit to herself that an afternoon spent with the 
undemanding, unassuming, adorable man who was Robert Drake was a very 
agreeable prospect. "As long as you are true to your promise to get me home on 
time." 

"Scout's honor, ma'am," said Bobby. 

*** 

Despite their mutual intention to do something Useful, with a capital U, Ororo and 
Bobby somehow ended up wandering through Central Park, Bobby devouring a 
funnel cake as if he hadn't eaten in years, and Storm slowly making her way 
through an Italian ice. 

"Nice weather," Bobby commented absently. 

"I know," replied Storm. "We are very lucky." 

Bobby gave her an inscrutable look. He may have been about to say 
something, Storm wasn't sure, but she distracted him by touching a finger to his 
nose. "Powdered sugar," she explained. 

"Oh, thanks. You got all of it?" 

"Yes." 

He took another bite and promptly got more powdered sugar on his nose. Storm 
decided to leave it this time; it looked cute. Storm wondered at which point 
Bobby had become the best looking man on the team. Well, aside from Remy. 
But his looks weren't as... endearing. "How much longer will you be staying?" she 
asked. 

"Hmm? Me? I don't know. Depends on if I can figure out something to do. My 
adult live has revolved around the X-Men. Hell, did I say revolved? My life *was* 
the X-Men. I guess I could become an accountant or something if I left, but I 
don't really want that." He paused, but Storm only licked her ice and said 
nothing, so he went on, "If I were a woman, of course, I could get married and be 
a housewife. But you can't be a househusband. It undermines your manliness. 
Anyway, as Hank and Rogue would be quick to point out, you have to find a 
woman who wants to marry you first. That might prove a challenge." Storm 
shook her head slightly, smiling mysteriously, but offered no reply. 

"I think I'd like to be a dad, though," Bobby babbled. "You probably wouldn't think 
so, but I think I'd be good at it. The kids'd love me, I have a rapport with people 
under twelve. Their mom'd learn to hate me though. I can just imagine it- 'For 
God's sake, Bobby,'" he said in a shrill falsetto, "'what on *Earth* possessed you 
to teach our two-year-old to write his name in lighter fluid and set it on fire?'" 
Storm snorted, and Bobby smiled. "Of course, by the time they were thirteen, 
they'd be immensely embarrassed by me. So maybe it's better if I don't have 
kids." 

Storm stifled a smile, and, after a moment of silence, finally felt compelled to say 
*something* in response to all of this. "There is, of course, the matter of 
genetics." 

"Yeah, but can't they just check for mutations before the baby is formed?" 

"Well..." 

"Then again, I don't think I could do that to a kid. I mean, what if they were going 
to have the power of flight? Or to shapeshift? Or make money appear out of thin 
air? You just can't take that away from a kid." 

"You could always adopt," Storm suggested. 

"Yeah, I could." They paused as Storm went over to a nearby trash can to 
balance her cup precariously on the top of a pile of other refuse, and continued 
on. 

"So," said Bobby, cautiously, "what about you? You've got to have plans. You 
can't make me believe you're as negligent as I am when it comes to the future." 

"I really don't know what I would do if I left the X-Men. I am a woman of many 
talents," she mused, "but few of them are legal." 

Bobby eyed her nervously. "Y'know, I'm just *not* gonna touch that one." 

Storm laughed, a brief, throw-back-your-head laugh. She looked glorious. "Well," 
she said, "if all else fails, perhaps I will run off with Remy." 

He bit his lip, and said, earnestly, "Oh, don't do that." 

She eyed him sharply, then shrugged. "To be honest, the life of a thief has little 
appeal at the moment." 

Bobby caught up her hand impulsively. "Good. Then stay here. Scott'd be 
ashamed of you, talking of escape like this. I signed up so I could be in a place 
where people wouldn't try to beat the crap out of me every day- well, not without 
apologizing, at least- but it became something quite different long ago. It's home, 
no matter what changes may occur." 

She smiled at him, and returned his grip. "We can't bring your old home back, 
Robert, but we can make it beautiful again." 

"Well, *you* can," Bobby amended, releasing her hand and looking at her with 
something like pride. "Me and the others, we can just try to make sure the roof 
doesn't collapse any time soon." 

His ears had gone a little pink in that endearing way of his, and he began to 
babble again. Storm listened with half an ear. He was right, she belonged here. 
Scott wouldn't have just been ashamed of her thoughts of running away, he 
would have been angry at himself for leaving so poor a legacy. *We will make it 
work,* she thought, a silent promise to Scott's spirit, which she knew only too 
well still watched over them. *The team will be a tribute to you, and the mansion 
a monument. We may not be perfect, but, Goddess knows, we are strong.* She 
glanced over at Bobby, who had fallen silent, and was staring at his shoes as he 
walked. *Some of us more than we know,* she added, silently. 

*** 

Storm had been in a rather good mood, and that made Storm all the more 
surprised when she found herself out of humor with Forge. He was so sweet and 
charming in his own, intense way, so why did she find him so... so... 

They had finally agreed to take a small dinner in the attic greenhouse. Forge had 
complimented her on the improvement in the condition of the house. 

She beamed at him. "I can hardly take all the credit for *that*. The whole team 
has been a great help, at least since we got them working. Robert especially. I 
have never seen him take so much initiative. I think... I think it is because he 
feels a responsibility after Scott's death." 

"Bobby, huh? Well, good for him. Regardless of who did what to help, I still must 
commend you on the vast improvement." 

And all that Bobby's valliant efforts received were a 'good for him' then? Of 
course, Forge could hardly be expected to realize just the extent of the help 
Bobby had lent her. "It has improved in that it seems the roof will not collapse on 
us anytime soon," agreed Storm, continuing wistfully, "but it is not beautiful yet. It 
was beautiful, before. It was a home, not an empty husk. So empty..." She 
paused to take a bit of pasta to stop herself from spouting out her many opinions 
on just how terrible the emptiness was, and why, and then said, her voice 
sharper, "And the place is filthy!" 

"You could bring in a cleaning service," suggested Forge helpfully. 

She looked at him with disdain. "Do you have any idea of what it would cost to 
pay for someone to clean this entire, filthy mansion?" 

"Can't say I do..." 

"Too much," said Storm. 

"Oh, well." Forge looked down at his pasta, and played with it a bit. Storm didn't 
look away, and at last he glanced back up and was forced to meet her eyes. "Of 
course, I didn't come here to talk about house repair and cleaning." 

"Of course." 

"Ororo, what happened between us?" 

She sat thoughtfully, contemplating the admittedly inane question. She had, 
maybe still, loved him, but he was just so... 

So... 

He reached over the pasta and grabbed on of her hands. "God, I still love you so 
much, Ororo. I can't get rid of it, can't shake it, and I can't help but feel that you... 
you feel the same way. I know we had difficulties, but we could get past them." 

Her heart rose into her throat and sank into her stomach at the exact same time. 
"I am going through a difficult time," she began. 

"I know, but, Ororo, this can't wait any longer. After all, if you wanted to evade 
the point, then why did you invite me over? It will always be a difficult time, when 
it comes to this. Do you think we could give it another try?" 

He was so... burdensome. 

She didn't want this right now. Didn't need this right now. Perhaps she loved 
Forge, but... 

"Let me think about this," she replied. 

"You've thought about it for so long, 'Ro. I think you'll never make up your mind." 

"If you press me," she said, with a tolerable resemblance to lightness, "you can 
be sure that I will make up my mind to never talk to you again." She gave him a 
soft look, and said, "I will call you soon, Forge." 

He looked at her for a moment, then rubbed his temples tiredly. "All right, okay." 
He rose, and nodded to her, something between curtness and hopefulness. "I'll 
talk to you later then." 

After she was sure he was gone, Storm left her attic room, and went off to do 
something more pleasant than reflect on her conversation with Forge. Something 
more pleasant, like hunting down cockroaches, or discussing their desperate 
economic state with Robert. Or ripping off her fingernails one by one. 

The night was young yet. Which meant either a night out, or a night in doing 
work. Her conscience would not permit the former, so Storm quickly began on 
the latter. 

*** 

Storm looked up to see Bobby making his way towards her through the foliage. 
"You know," he said severely, "you really can't keep living like this. The kids next 
door are starting to call you 'that crazy plant lady.'" 

"Are these the same children," she asked, with a twinkle in her eye, "who 
regularly break our windows when playing baseball on our property?" 

"Yeah. And don't forget the time they ruined your prize orchid." 

"Ah, yes. How stupid of me to leave it sitting outside when I have a greenhouse 
up here." 

"You never were the sharpest tool in the shed, 'Ro." He grinned in return for her 
pretend annoyance and sat down. "So, whatchya up to?" 

"I have decided to engage in a thorough house cleaning, starting with the top 
floor. I don't know why I chose to start with the floor with the most dirt and 
windows. I detest washing windows, and this," she gestured to the glass which 
surrounded them, "this makes me wish I had four hands." 

He held out his own hands, palm up. "If you want, you can use two of mine." His 
voice was strangely soft. 

Storm's mind was suddenly filled with a thousand visions of just *what* could be 
done with those hands, and each was more inappropriate than the next. Hoping 
she didn't look as flushed as she felt, she grabbed one of his wrists and placed a 
rag in his hand. 

"Thank you for offering. You can start cleaning the windows, while I make sure 
all of the boards are sound." She began walking around the attic, making a show 
of tapping her feet on the boards, and examining each one carefully. 

"Now you're just doing that to annoy me," Bobby grumbled, glancing dubiously at 
his rag, and then back at the windows. 
"I'll have my revenge." 

"I have no doubt of that," Storm said demurely, as she continued to check the 
boards. 

"I think I know why you started up here," Bobby said conversationally. "It might 
be daunting with its windows, but it's the most comfortable otherwise. The rest of 
the mansion can never be the same, what with all we've lost, but plants- they're 
always familiar no matter how new they are." 

"What an interesting observation." 

"You don't have to be sarcastic," said Bobby, his ears turning a bit red. 

"I wasn't," Storm replied. She had given up all pretense of checking the boards, 
and was sitting on the floor, watching Bobby clean. "I hate the fact that all our 
things are gone because, not so much that I miss them, but that it makes us 
victims. I hate being a victim." 

"Of course. But you get used to it," shrugged Bobby. 

"I don't intend to," Storm replied, voice hard. 

Bobby eyed her intently, and breathed, "Oh, no. *You* should never get used to 
it, Ororo." 

She smiled at him slightly, and rose to her feet. "Thank you. I think I have been 
inspired to stop being a victim. I have a plan." 

"That's great, O. Anything else you need inspiring for?" 

Her smile grew a bit wider. "Not at the moment, Bobby, but when I do, I will tell 
you." 

*Bobby,* he thought happily, watching her stride purposefully out of the room. 
*I'm Bobby now.* 




CHAPTER VI 

"Hey, lady, what are you doing in here?" the man who seemed to be in charge 
shouted over at Storm. 

She smiled brilliantly, willing herself to *be* the part she was acting. After 
sneaking in, she had covered her white hair with a black scarf and sunglasses 
for effect, and was now walking around as if her presence were perfectly 
legitimate. *I *am* a bigoted supermodel-type who married an insanely rich man 
and I am here to waste as much of his money as possible while indulging my 
artistic whims, and not an impulsive, vengeful, mutant thief. Believe it.* 

"I was browsing, actually," she said in soft, authoritive tones. "My husband and I 
are very interested in art and we were told we could get rather good prices at the 
warehouse. Especially on a fairly new shipment of interest, which contained a 
portrait I was interested it, as well as some pieces by prominent female artists." 
She looked at him politely, waiting. 

His doubts seemed slightly assuaged by her knowledge of the pieces in the 
shipment- an sure indicator she was one of the people in the know, and probably 
married to a one of the FOH's financial backers as well. Still he eyed her 
dubiously. Her abrupt appearance and the fact that she was black probably 
weren't factors in her favor, she reflected ruefully. "Really, ma'am? Might I ask 
your name?" 

Ah, but she had been ready for the question. A quick look through Cerebro's 
records had given her the most believable candidate. "Georgette Whitson." 

"Oh. Okay, Mrs. Whitson. Thing is, I belive they've already been sold." 

"Oh, really?" said Mrs. Whitson interestedly. "To who? Perhaps they will be 
willing to sell." 

*** 

Remy and Rogue were talking in low and intense voices, and any person with an 
ounce of sense would've left them the hell alone. But Bobby hadn't seen Ororo 
since yesterday, Xavier would only tell him that Ororo was a free woman with the 
right to do as she chose, so Bobby was desperate. Desperation had a tendency 
to nullify what little sense he had. "Hey, Remy. I don't suppose you could tell me 
where Storm is?" *Please don't say she's gone for a while. Please don't say 
she's gone.* 

Remy shrugged. "She wen' way for awhile. Now, 'scuze me Bobby." He turned 
back to Rogue, and they continued their conversation. Bobby could almost hear 
the melancholy love-theme playing the in the background.

*She's gone to see Forge. Oh, God, please don't say my little talk convinced her 
to go back to Forge...* But he was jumping to conclusions. There were a number 
of places she could have gone. He should ask Remy. No, no, he couldn't ask if 
she had gone to see Forge, it wouldn't sound right... "Did she go to see Forge?" 

Remy looked up impatiently, and shrugged again. "Your guess is as good as 
mine." His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Maybe better." 

Bobby left, dragging his feet. Just the uncertainty made him feel like throwing up. 
If he knew for sure she had gone to see Forge, he'd probably go catatonic. 
  
He stopped, struck by a sudden realization. *Bobby, you idiot. You're not falling 
in love with her, are you?* 

He answered his own question, *I've already fallen.* 

He sighed, and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. Of course he'd fallen 
for her. It was the Law of Bobby- if he was around a woman and she was either 
A) nice to him or B) beautiful and unattainable, Bobby would develop a mad 
crush on her. Unless she was married. Thus far, thank God, he hadn't been 
confronted with *that* affliction. 

The thing was, Storm was both A and B. Plus she was amazingly insightful, and 
she worked so hard for everyone, so unselfishly. She was a true leader. Hell, 
even her faults were irresistible. And she had a beautiful laugh. 

Well, looked like he was going to have to suffer through another phase of 
unrequited love. It would pass, well, at least the bad part, and until then he was 
getting quite good at dealing with situations like this. 

Bobby went off to find a potent alcoholic beverage of some sort. Any sort. He 
wasn't picky. 

*** 

Storm could've used a drink right then. 

Not that she drank much, but something to relieve the uncomfortable knot of 
tension in her stomach would have been most welcome. She had done things 
more dangerous than this before, but now if she messed up, it would mean 
Xavier would have another thing to dangle over her head. *I have given you 
everything, Charles. What more would you have of me?* 

Her resignation from the position of team leader, for one thing. As well as for her 
to take the thankless position of teacher to her replacement, and Rogue didn't 
want to be taught anymore than Storm wanted to teach her. 

Perhaps, she reflected wryly, she should pay attention to the job at hand. It 
would not do at all for an X-Man to be caught in a private residence, stealing 
valuable art. 

She was fairly sure that the fact she was stealing the art *back* would not be a 
very important consideration to the authorities. 
  
The house was pseudo-Japanese, made mainly of wood, with sliding doors to 
the patio on ground level. However, she dare not enter through there. The guard 
who was not circling the house would surely see her. So she had alighted on the 
roof about ten minutes ago and was seated on the slightly inclined roof, 
considering how best to get in. At last she decided, and waited for one of the two 
men on the night shift to finish his circuit, so she'd have the longest possible time 
to get in before he came around again. She didn't want to create any 
suspiciously thick fogs unless she had to. It was the first time she had done 
something like this in a long while, and using her powers seemed almost like 
cheating. 

At last, he passed by and around a corner. She lowered herself over the side of 
the roof. She summoned up all  the air she could to slow her brief descent, but 
even that would not to much. Pressing her body as close to the side of the house 
as possible, she bent her legs slightly and dropped. 

The windowbox was only a foot wide, and upon contact with it she compressed 
into a crouching position, and threw herself against the window to keep herself 
from falling backwards, though for a moment she was sure she would. The room 
was empty; she had made sure of that before by leaning over the side and 
peering down. 

The screen was easily disposed of, but the window itself was another matter. 
She had been prepared to deal with wiring, but that at least didn't prove 
necessary. She attempted to open it a few ways, but it looked as if the best 
method would be breaking it. She had to get inside soon, because either the 
guard would come around, or the window box would collapse beneath her. 

The glass was doubled though, and very resilient. Removing a large, wicked-
looking knife, and began to cut and pry at the bottom, then the sides. Not much 
time left. A minute, at most. 

Storm shifted the window in its frame, and was at last able to tilt it in. It started to 
fall forward, but she threw herself after it and managed to stop it from shattering 
on the ground, or at least from making a large noise upon impact. 

She was inside. That had been extremely simple. Now all she need do was stay 
quiet, and maybe pick a few simple locks. 

She opened the door cautiously and entered the dark hall. As she walked down 
it, she realized a familiar pair of eyes were staring at her. 

"Mrs. Xavier," she murmured wryly, taking the small Sargent portrait off the wall 
with care. 

*Extremely* simple. 
  
*** 

"Bobby, you aren't by any chance, uh, bored?" Kitty asked curiously, entering the 
room. 

He glanced up from his hand of cards. "No, why do you ask?" He discarded 
three cards. 

"It's just 'cause, uh, people don't usually do stuff like that unless they're bored or 
insane, and I'm rather hoping it's the former." 

"Hmm? Well, it's probably the second one." He lay his hand of cards down, and 
picked up the one across from him, in front of a propped-up calendar picture of 
Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Looking through the cards, he said, in a falsetto, "I'd 
like two, please," then, in his own voice, "Sure thing, Sarah." 

Kitty watched for a moment then said, "Um... is there a particular reason you're 
playing poker against a picture of Sarah Michelle Gellar?" 

"Yeah, there is." He sighed. "Willow kept beating me." 

"Ah," Kitty said faintly. "Um." 

He lay his cards down. "No, honestly, my head's about to implode. I'd just 
needed something to distract me, and I've already cleaned the whole friggin' 
house." 

"Wondering what the hell happened to Ororo, huh?" Kitty asked sympathetically. 

His eyes darted quickly to her face, then fell back down to his hands. "Huh? 
What makes you think that?" 

To his annoyance, Kitty seemed amused by his nervousness. "You guys have 
been pretty close lately. You're kinda her right hand man, Bobby. Don't think 
none of us have noticed you've been looking out for her." 
  
*I didn't think that you hadn't noticed, I was just hoping it.* "I really haven't done 
that much for her," he protested. 

"More than you know, I think. Especially since the rest of us haven't been helping 
at all." A flash of guilt in her voice, quickly hidden. Kitty continued, "What with the 
combined efforts of her nearest and dearest, it's no wonder she hasn't been 
doing that well." 

"Well, she was bordering on comatose for a little while back there, but she got 
over it, and she did it by herself. There's no need to feel guilty, that's how she 
works. She goes on." 

Kitty looked at him, opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again. At 
last she settled on a, "Oh, I think she needs a little push every now and then." 

Bobby shrugged, and turned back to his guards, signifying the end of the 
interview as it were. Kitty stood there a moment, then sat between him and Buffy. 
"Deal me in." She grinned. "Maybe it'll be more fun with three people." 

*** 

Storm had found most of the pictures, except one, and her exploration of the 
dark house had been uneventful except for the time she slammed her shin into a 
foot rest. 

She shone her flashlight around. There was one more picture, she believed, and 
landscape. Lots of trees, gathering clouds in the distance. She only remembered 
it because it had been a painting of the mansion grounds. What had possessed 
him to take the beautiful, but certainly not valuable, picture she would never 
know. This collector could hardly have the same emotional attatchment to it as 
she did. 

Some of the upstairs doors were locked, but they were pretty simple to pick. The 
painting didn't seem to be in any of them. 

At last she reached the bedroom. She was about to close it quickly, when she 
realized just what the painting above the man's bed was. *The landscape.* 

She tiptoed cautiously in, ready to bolt at any moment if the man sprawled on the 
bed moved. Placing one knee on the bed gingerly, she reached over and lifted it, 
raising it off the nail. It snagged briefly, so she lowered the painting again and 
twisted it, her hand trying to feel behind it. For a moment, though, each of her 
hands thought the other hand was holding the painting, and it slipped away, 
hitting the man beneath it as she fell forward. 

He stirred, struggling back into wakefulness. Storm grabbed the painting, 
clutching it to her chest as the other paintings in her huge shoulder bag beat 
against her thigh. The man let out an inarticulate wail as Storm rushed down the 
hallway, trying to remember which room she had come in through. 

She found it at last; she had left the door open. Taking one glance behind her, 
only for curiosity's sake, she ran to the window and jumped out. The wind caught 
her and turned what had the potential to be an embarrassing bellyflop into a 
graceful ascension into the sky. 

She glided over to where she had landed the Blackbird, and scolded herself 
severely. She was losing her touch, she really was. She had one or two more 
places she wanted to go, including back to that warehouse, and if she continued 
to be this sloppy, she might not succeed. 

Of course, even at her sloppiest, she hadn't been caught. A giggle emerged from 
her throat, and soon it was a full-blown laugh. 

*** 

The sonic boom woke up everyone. Bobby was dashing out the door when he 
was caught by the stench of Nightcrawler teleporting. 

He heard laughter, saw Storm hanging onto Nightcrawler, her face nearly split in 
two by her enormous smile. 

"Liebchen!" Kurt was crying. "You did this?" 

The blackbird sat on the runway, crates of various objects standing outside. A 
few of them he didn't recognize, but most of them were very familiar. 

She grinned. "Oh, it was nothing. I was in the area." And she was laughing again, 
holding her hand to Kurt's chest, looping her arm around his shoulders; Peter 
standing behind her, arms around her and Kurt, Pryde saying, 'wow. Ohmigosh 
and wow.' As for Bobby, he repressed an insane happy dance. *She didn't go to 
see Forge!* 

"Is she not beautiful?" Ororo asked Logan and the professor who were coming 
out to join them. 

"Shugah," said Rogue, "You took an awful risk. You sure you weren't followed?" 

Storm straightened. Everyone went strangely silent. 

"You coulda gotten hurt. We're X-Men, we stick together. Pulling this kind stunt 
coulda been okay when it was just you and Gumbo running around New 
Orleans, but who knows what hornets' nest you coulda stepped in." 

Bobby felt the air pressure drop. 

"But of course, Rogue. I should have taken care to clear the repossession with 
you. Or with the Professor. I won't make the same mistake twice." 

Bobby felt himself tear inside. And he was full of anger against Rogue. And 
Remy, who just stood there. 

He stepped up to Storm, hugged her briskly. "I missed you." 

"And I missed you." 

"You got time for me to show you something? It's really cool." 

Storm allowed him to lead her away. 

When he was sure that not even Wolverine could hear them he said, "Sheesh, 
talk about ingratitude." 

Storm snorted, "Oh, it's worth it for the looks on their faces." 
  
*** 

"Did I already ask you," Bobby said the next morning, as he sat ensconced in his 
new leather armchair which he had positioned in front of the TV, "how the hell 
you found all our stuff?" 

"They kept careful records of where everything was," Ororo answered, declining 
to explain anything else, such as exactly who 'they' were. "Of course, I took a few 
other things, too. Security was very lax." 

"Obviously, if you had time to take this armchair." Bobby regarded her 
admiringly. "You think of everything, don't you?" 

"Well," she admitted, "I had you in mind when I got the chair." 

He spun part way around- another of the chair's great features. "Gee, 'Ro, you're 
the greatest!" He swung the other way. "Don't listen to Rogue. She's just 
insecure about being a leader-in-training." 

"You noticed that, too?" 

"Hard to miss." He put the footrest up, and looked up at her, his blue eyes bright 
as he watched her. "But you'll lead the team again, O. You can only suppress 
light for so long." 

"Thank you." The steady brilliance in his eyes was blinding, and at last she 
looked away, and excused herself.



CHAPTER VII 
  
Storm was sitting in the living room, meditating on various things and waiting for 
someone, when a catch of song reached her ears. Something about marmalade 
skies. It emanated from the kitchen, she followed it in spite of herself. She was 
sick of meditating and waiting, anyhow. 

Bobby was singing while he did the dishes. He was off-key and off-tune, and it 
was a beautiful sound. "Somebody calls you, you answer quite slowly... the girl 
with kaleidoscope eyes..." Unfortunately, he stopped on the next line as he 
realized Storm had entered, turning towards her with an embarrassed smile on 
his face. "Uh, hi, 'Ro." 

She smiled back, her expression not the least embarrassed. "Do not stop on my 
account." 

"I'm not stopping for you," he assured her, "I'm stopping for the sake of my 
dignity." He continued doing dishes as he spoke.  "Then again, I suppose it isn't 
*that* embarrassing. I could've been singing 'Wind Beneath My Wings' or 
something. At least it was a Beatles song." 

"Could you have?" asked Storm interestedly, leaning on the counter next to him. 
He gave her a puzzled look, and she amended, "What I mean is, do you know 
enough words to 'Wind Beneath My Wings' to have been singing it?" 

"Uh... no, not at all," Bobby said unconvincingly. He turned away from her again, 
apparently giving the dishes his full attention. 

"If it's any consolation, Bobby, I know all the words to 'From a Distance'." 
*Through no fault of my own. Damn Rogue for playing it over and over again.* 

"Really?" said Bobby, with a light in his eyes that made her regret the admission. 
"Prove it." 

"What? No! There is a reason you have not heard me sing, Bobby." 

"Aw, c'mon, you don't have to sing it *well*," he persisted. 

"I absolutely refuse to get drawn into this discussion," she said firmly. 

"Aw, 'Ro. I *have* to hear this. Just the first verse..." 

"Anyway," she said sulkily, crossing her arms, "I no longer remember it." 

"Liar. You might as well try it, 'Ro. You're not gonna make me shut up any other 
way." 

Storm regarded him with a contemplative gleam in her eyes. *We'll see about 
that.*  She leaned towards him, placing her hand on the back of his head, and 
kissed him, full on the mouth. Tasted tartness and sweetness, placed her 
fingertips on his smooth sharp cheekbone to steady herself swayed gently 
against him, feeling heat rash her from chest, to neck to just around her hairline. 
She'd never had such a pleasant time shutting someone up before. 

After his initial surprised paralysis, Bobby began to kiss back. The pulled apart at 
last for no other reason than want of breath. 

His eyes were questioning as he looked at her, something between sad and 
hopeful. He muttered faintly, "I stand corrected." 

The question in his eyes hurt. She ran a hand along side of his face, and opened 
her mouth to say something reassuring. As luck would have it, the doorbell 
chose that moment to ring. *You were waiting for someone, remember?* 

"I'll get it," she murmured, rushing out of the kitchen. Bobby didn't move, didn't 
speak. 

She opened the door, and emitted a breathless "Forge." 

"Ororo." 

"Come in." 

"Thank you." 

They sat down in the living room, and Ororo tried not to twitch nervously as she 
briefly outlined her plans for going out to lunch. Forge, of course, agreed with 
everything. She then excused herself for a moment, going back to the kitchen. 

Bobby was gone, however. She didn't have time to go looking for him, so she 
went back to the living room. 

*** 

Uncertainty was a horrible thing. 

It could stop you mid-step, no matter how great your momentum. It killed 
happiness with as much ease as sadness did. And it could last a lifetime. 

Bobby hoped to God it wouldn't. 

So was Storm unsure? Or did she know exactly what she was doing? Had that 
kiss *meant* something, dammit, or was it just her rather heart-rending method 
of making him be quiet? 

Just one certainty, that was all he asked. 

*I've got one,* volunteered a bitter voice in the back of his head. *She thinks 
you're cute, and she's in love with Forge.* 

"Bobby? What are you doing up here?" It was Peter's voice, and, looking up, 
Bobby saw he was accompanied by Kitty and a rather large canvas. 

A very valid question. Bobby wished he knew the answer. He poked a daffodil he 
was sitting next to, reflecting that he was probably asked *What are you doing?* 
more than any other habitant of the mansion. Even more than Marrow. Of 
course, she probably got more, *What do you think you're doing?* questions. 

"Bobby?" Kitty's voice was concerned. 

"Not much," Bobby answered at last. "Just didn't think Storm'd mind me looking 
at her plants while she was away." Okay, that question was dodged. Time to 
return the attack now. "What are *you* doing up here?" 

"I am going to be painted 'mongst the flowers," explained Kitty. 

"Oh. Naked?" Bobby asked politely. 

Colossus looked thoughtful, but Kitty replied, just as politely, "No. I will be at least 
partially clothed." 

"Good timing for a portrait. The light's great, now that it can actually get through 
the windows."  Bobby raised a finger to trace around the yellow flower, and there 
was silence for a moment. Better speak. "I like daffodils," he offered. 

"Me too," said Kitty. 

"Fascinating as this conversation is," Peter interrupted, "perhaps we could start 
painting?" 

But Kitty went over to sit beside Bobby and his daffodil. "Minute, Peter. Bobby, 
you want something to drink maybe? I could get you something." 

"No, thanks." 

Kitty glanced back at an impatient Peter, then leaned towards Bobby, saying in a 
low voice, "Is it Ororo?" 

"I don't know why you assume that," Bobby replied caustically. He flicked the 
daffodil so it wobbled a bit. 

"Well, because she's out with Forge, and you're here looking pensive and not a 
little upset." 

"Forge?" said Peter, catching just that little bit of the conversation, and grasping 
at it. "I wonder if Ororo and he will get back together. She seems to miss him so 
much, yet I cannot but be afraid he'll hurt her again." 

Kitty looked annoyed, but Bobby, recalling suddenly that Peter was pretty close 
to Storm, shot out, "You think she loves him?" 

"I... would not presume to speak for the lady. But it would seem that way. Or 
what I see might just be ill-advised pining for a love which can never be 
recaptured." Kitty looked up at him, and they exchanged ironic glances. Then 
Peter added, impatiently, "Can we start painting now?" 

"No. Another day," Kitty replied, rising quickly. "I don't feel like sitting still for that 
long. Sorry. Why don't you paint Sarah or something? She'd like that." 

"But, Katya..." 

"Not now Peter!" She looked down at Bobby, and her eyes darkened. "And you. 
Do *something*, for God's sake!" She stalked out of the room, muttering about 
training with Logan. 

Peter and Bobby watched, unsure of what or who she was annoyed at, or if she 
was annoyed at all. Women could be so incomprehensible, Bobby thought 
irritably, before returning to contemplating his daffodil. 

*** 

"You're back," Xavier commented dispassionately. 

Storm regarded the man, his yellow chair hovering in the living room. "Yes, I am. 
Have you been waiting for me?" 

Charles didn't answer, but commented, "The new training schedule is working 
out very well. Yours?" 

"No. Rogue's, I believe. You really should straighten yourself out as to who is 
team leader, before a civil war results from everyone's confusion. In fact, Bobby 
has already informed me of his intentions to stage a *coup de mansion*." 

"Putting himself in charge?" Xavier asked interestedly. 

"No. Me." Storm sat down on the couch, and slipped her heels off. 

"Then again, perhaps Bobby would not be such a bad choice. As of late, he's 
been taking on a lot more responsibility," mused Xavier. 

"Not a good idea, Charles. He wouldn't like it." 

"Maybe not," admitted Charles. "Just batting ideas around." 

Storm settled back, preparing for a long conversation. "In all honesty, Rogue is 
proving a competent enough second-in-command. But I would not recommend 
elevating her above Kurt. She is still a bit insecure, and earnest to a fault, and 
Kurt is certainly neither of those things." 

"He has a very light touch, doesn't he?" 

"Yes." 

Charles looked a bit apologetic. Only a bit, though.  "I never meant to insult your 
leadership ability, you know, Storm. It just was not working for the team. You 
have, however, done great things for the mansion. It's looking wonderful." 

"I thought you would like that," Ororo said softly. "I know how much it means to 
you." 

He met her eyes. His tone was not accusatory, but very gentle. "No, Ororo, you 
don't." 

*** 

Storm walked along the path to the boathouse. She could've been walking on air, 
had not Bobby and Forge been weighing her down. Damn them both. 

She wasn't sure whether she or Bobby had been avoiding the other the most. It 
was getting to be a ridiculous game, but she simply could not confront him while 
still so unsure of her feelings. 

Uncertainty was a horrible thing. 

There was a light drizzle, and she wasn't sure whether it complemented or 
contrasted with her mood. Contrary to popular believe, she didn't have a 
monopoly on weather. 

She finally reached the boathouse, and stood contemplating it for a moment. 
Jean. She had had something like stability before the funeral, but it had vanished 
afterwards. That was why she had fled to Alaska. Perhaps it had finally sunk in 
that he was dead, or perhaps the selfish guilt of the others had gotten to her. 
Ororo, for one, was ashamed of how guilty she had felt. A selfish, consuming 
feeling she had no right to feel while there was work to be done. She had made 
a promise to Scott to absolve the guilt. The offering of the mansion promised to 
be a great sacrifice to Scott's restless ghost, and Bobby seemed a perfect high 
priest to preside over it. Or was he the altar? 

Metaphors aside, she could feel her life flooding back into her with every new 
action, every new reparation. Her Goddess loved her again, and Storm loved 
everyone else again. 

Now, if only she could figure out just *how* she loved two of the people who fell 
into the category of everyone else, things would be much, much better. 

"Logan," she said suddenly, as she caught a whiff of cigar. She went forward, 
and found Logan behind the boathouse seated on a pile of lumber, talking to 
Kitty. 

He looked up, and grinned at her. "I'm supposed to be the one who sniffs people 
out, ya know." He glanced up at the sky, and, by implication, the weather. "So, 
how're things?" he added in a more serious tone. 

"Going very well, actually." He looked mildly surprised as she cast around for a 
place to sit, continuing, "Tell me, do you think it would be worthwhile to fix up the 
boathouse?" 

At last Kitty gave up her seat to Storm, being a well-trained girl. Logan answered, 
"I couldn't say, really. Suppose we could find some use for it." Logan eyed her 
shrewdly. "And it would mean something more than you fixing up the mansion 
does." 

So he understood. After all, they both knew that it would be unlikely to be used, 
considering the ghosts that haunted it. Friendly ghosts, but ghosts nonetheless. 
"Perhaps I will work on that later. Well, excuse me, I think I will finish my walk." 

Logan nodded, Kitty bad her farewell, and Storm continued down the path, 
Scott's ghost a little lighter on her shoulder. 

*** 

Bobby lugged a suitcase down the stairs. He had made up his mind, and now 
nothing could stop him. 

Storm entered as he placed it next to his other suitcase, and his mind added, 
*Well, almost nothing.* 

"Bobby," she said, her voice tight, "what are you doing?" 

There was that question again. Bobby ran his fingers through his hair. "I meant 
to tell you, but you weren't around. I've decided to go visit Jean. Stop at my 
parents' place, too." 

"You wanting to visit Jean I can understand," Storm replied, "but didn't you just 
visit your parents?" 

"I think... I need to get to know my mother a bit better," Bobby said. It sounded a 
bit odd, but it was very true. *Of course, I want to see Jean even more,* he 
admitted guiltily to himself. 

From the look on her face, Storm seemed to approve of his intent to get to know 
his mother better, but she said, "This is... sudden."

He shuffled his feet. "Been thinking about it for some time, actually." 

"But why?" Her face seemed a battleground for warring expressions. At last it 
settled on one of slight disappointment, the perfect expression with which to 
greet the news that a friend was leaving. He *had* hoped for a little more. 

*To get the hell out of your way,* he answered her question mentally. Either she 
was in love with Forge, and it was time he got the hell out of there before he did 
something idiotic, or she wasn't sure what was going on between them either, 
and it was time he got the hell out of there to give her a chance to make up her 
mind.  "I told you. To see Jean and my parents." 

She nodded, seeming to accept this. "Yes, well, say hello to Jean for me. When 
will you be back?" 

"I'm not sure. But I'll call, or something." He hefted a suitcase. "I'd better go, my 
taxi's waiting." 

"Then I won't detain you any longer. Rogue wanted me to advise her on 
something, anyway." She smiled and gave him a friendly hug. "Enjoy yourself, 
Bobby." 

"I will. Take good care of everyone for me, 'kay?" 

"I always do," she answered demurely, and trotted off. 

Just like that. That was it. A friendly hug, and she was off to advise Rogue. Then 
again, she *was* a very busy woman, with people to see, places to go. He 
couldn't blame her. 

He started out the door, hauling his two suitcases, and humming a rather 
depressing non-tune. He had places to go and people to see, too. 


CHAPTER VIII 
  
The room was draped in a soft, fiery glow, the shadows dancing slightly with the 
flames' movement. The usual musky odor was overwhelmed by the less subtle 
scent of roasting marshmallows, and the usual silence broken by a commentary 
from the room's two occupants. 

They had been reminiscing about Scott for the past two days. It had seemed to 
soothe Jean, instead of sending her into strong hysterics, and Bobby certainly 
found it... helpful. He had been doing so much before and after the funeral, he 
hadn't taken the time to commemorate Scott's death properly. And the proper 
way to commemorate the death was, of course, remembering the man's life. 

Now, though, it seemed more of a time to just sit there and not remember 
anybody or anything important. 

"Damn," said Bobby, pulling his marshmallows away from the fire and blowing on 
them furiously, "burned it again." 

"They're better that way," replied Jean, "crunchy on the outside, chewy on the 
inside." She pulled her own marshmallows out of the fire and gave them a 
moment to cool before she attacked them. "I'm glad you thought to bring 
marshmallows." 

"Well," said Bobby, between bites, "I really just brought them in case. I was sure 
you'd have some already. And women say that *men* forget the essentials." 

"I guess we just have different ideas of essentials, that's all." She leaned back on 
one hand, holding her skewer with the other. "For example, *I* consider clean 
sheets and soap to be essentials." 

"Bah! Who needs clean sheets and soap when you've got marshmallows?" 
Bobby grinned. 

"If you're suggesting them as *replacements* for soap and sheets..." Jean 
paused. "I don't even want to think about it." 

"Mmmm... Marshmallow sheets." 

Jean fell back on the rug, gazing up at the ceiling, and there was silence for a 
while as they chewed on the burnt sugary globs. Then she ventured a, "So, how 
are things going at the mansion?" 

"Well, Jeannie, that's an interesting question, and probably one best answered 
by someone who is currently *at* the mansion." 

She turned her head and looked up at him. "You know what I mean." 

Bobby nodded, and thought for a moment. "Well, things are looking a lot better. 
And 'Ro stealing some of our things back was a very nice touch. A wake-up call, 
as it were." 

"How's Rogue doing as leader, or at least pseudo-leader?" 

"A lot better, since she got her head out of her ass and started paying attention 
to what Storm had to tell her. Of course, that only started a day or two before I 
left, so I haven't really had much of a chance to see the new and improved 
Rogue." 

"But the new and improved Storm?" 

Bobby smiled dreamily into the fire. "More like the old and improved Storm. She's 
just found her feet again." He looked down at Jean, and said softly, "Scott's 
death was... a horrible loss for you, and I think it left you, still has you, feeling 
kind of empty. But it didn't empty Storm, it just shifted her contents. She was very 
unbalanced, and none of us were sure which way she was going to topple." 

Jean managed a nod, even though her head was on the floor. "You did a lot for 
her." 

Bobby waved his hand in denial. "People keep telling me that. But it's not true. 
Storm's never had to look outside herself for anything." 

"I get the impression it helped to have someone counterbalance the pressure 
Forge and Xavier were putting on her." 

"And here you wanted us to think you were out of contact. You always know 
exactly what's going on, don't you?" Bobby asked grumpily. 

"I try, yes." She sat up, and smoothed her staticky hair back. "You know, I wish 
desperately Storm could find someone right for her. And not Forge." 

*Yeah, that was real subtle, Jean. Then again, subtle usually goes right over my 
head.* "You know," Bobby said, more hotly than he intended to, "contrary to what 
you all think, Storm doesn't *need* a man." 

Jean smiled slightly. "Maybe she needs a man who realized that." 

Bobby bit his lower lip. "Isn't that a paradox?" 

"People are full of 'em," Jean sighed. "I should know." 

Bobby recalled the marshmallows, and reached for them to give his tense hands 
something to do. "But she certainly seems to prefer Forge," he commented 
sadly. "Lately, with him around, she's seemed so happy... and I *should* be 
happy she's happy, but instead it hurts. I just wish... wish..." 

"That she'd be happy with you instead?" Jean asked softly. 

Bobby nodded glumly. "But it's all impossible. I have an Iceman's chance in hell 
with 'Ro, especially with Forge around." 

"Bobby, that's not in the least bit true..." 

"Nice of you to say Jean, but let's face it, I'm like 006 to his James Bond. I was 
doomed before the movie started." 

"Only due to a sad lack of imagination on the script writer's part," Jean assured 
him. She shifted so she was sitting right next to him, and leaned towards him to 
make sure she had his full attention. "Bobby, hon, I know you. I know Storm. And 
I'm pretty  sure something really great could happen between you two but," she 
slowed her voice as if she was trying to communicate with someone whose 
English was not so good, "not a single damned thing is going to happen if you sit 
here and think. You can sit here in this little cabin in Alaska and think and sulk 
and ponder for hours and hours and *nothing will change*. So you know what 
you do?" 

"Go think and sulk and ponder at my parents' house...?" Bobby ventured. 

"No." She pressed a finger to his nose. He involuntarily crossed his eyes to look 
down at it. "You stop thinking and start *doing*. You hop the next plane down to 
NY, and go find out how much effect *doing* things can have, 'cause thinking 
sure as hell isn't helping." 

Her finger was removed from his nose. He watched it for a moment longer, 
though, just so he didn't have to look at her eyes. "I'll... I'll think about it."

Her eyes widened. She blinked a few times, and said in a shocked tone, "You'll 
*think* about it?" 

"Uh, I mean, I'll go start packing. Heh." 

"Much better," Jean said cheerfully. She began to skewer a few more 
marshmallows as he walked out and added, "Of course, you realize it's pretty 
likely she *will* choose Forge." 

Bobby stopped in his tracks, and stared at her, shocked. Of course, it was true, 
but for her to actually *say* it...  "Jean, did you just say what I think you said?" 

"But," continued Jean, "if you let that damn likelihood get in your way, I will 
personally hang you naked by your toes over a pit of starving pirhanas." 

Bobby looked stricken. "Wow, you're getting really good at this pep-talk thing, 
Jean." 

"I've been practicing," she replied demurely. 

*** 

It was a beautiful sunny morning, which meant people assumed Storm was in a 
good mood. And each cheerful, assuming greeting people gave her added to her 
depressed mood. 

She had to stop yo-yoing like this. Bobby was right, she *was* joining the rest of 
them in a state of perpetual adolescence. Soon, instead of giving advice to 
Rogue, she'd be trading advice with Rogue. Half an hour on leadership, half an 
hour on dealing with out-of-proportion angst. 

Of course, she really wasn't *that* depressed. Since she had gotten through that 
bad patch after Scott's death, she had been doing fairly well. In fact, her bad 
mood that day could mainly be attributed to the fact that she was at the computer 
going through their expenditures, and that she was bored. 

Even tracing and stealing back Rogue's car had lacked a certain piquancy. She 
had once again considered going off with Remy, if only for a little while, but she 
had decided to put that idea on hold. She had promised a memorial, and 
memorials were supposed to be worthy of the remembered. This one certainly 
wasn't yet. 

She missed Bobby greatly, she knew that. Even when he wasn't being cheerful, 
or silly, or even particularly sweet, he brightened up the day. The question was, 
did he miss her? 

A doorbell cut in upon her reflections, followed shortly by an arrival. 

"Hello, Forge." The words, while said in a more surprised tone than, say, 'Hello 
Rogue' or 'Good afternoon, Kitten,' had lost much of their intensity. The man 
popped up often enough, Goddess knew. 

"Ororo. Working as usual, I see. I'm sorry to interrupt you." 

"You should not be. *I* am not in the least sorry to be interrupted." To 
demonstrate the truth of the statement, she closed all the open files and turned 
blue eyes on him in patient expectation. 

He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, silent. At last he said, "Ororo, 
you know how I feel..." 

"Yes. Do not go on. I believe what you intend to say is that I know how you feel, 
but you have not the faintest idea of what *I* am feeling." 

"Well, yes. Basically." 

She turned back to the computer. "I do not know, either." 

He nodded, murmured a few things to himself, cocked his head sideways... and 
then abruptly slammed the wall with the side of his fist. Ororo jumped. "Dammit, 
'Ro! Why are you doing this to me? I thought we were above playing games like 
this we each other." 

The sincere hurt in his voice angered her. She whirled in her chair and glared up 
at him. "Playing games? Do you think so little of me, Forge, that I would play with 
your emotions?" 

"What else can I think?" he asked, his voice both pained and annoyed. "You've 
had more than enough time to figure out your emotions. You're not an indecisive 
woman. What other explanation could their possibly be for this reluctance of 
yours? Are you trying to lure me in? Punish me? Do you find watching me suffer 
amusing?" 

She stood up so quickly that the chair almost fell over, and looked at him with an 
expression of horrified disbelief. "Are you going *insane*? Do you find it so 
impossible that a woman might have to actually *think* about it before rushing 
into your arms? What other conspiracy theories have you come up with to help 
shield your poor ego against the possibility that you are not irresistible?" He 
opened his mouth to speak, but she didn't give him a chance. "Shall I help you? 
Oh, do let me. We don't want your ego to go into decline. Perhaps I do not think I 
am worthy of you? Or perhaps I am recovering from a torrid love affair with a 
team mate, and unsure of whether I can face having another lover? Or maybe I 
am a lesbian..." 

He cut her off there, his hand clamping over her mouth, his eyes brimming with 
inexpressible rage. His words hissed out between clenched teeth. "That is not 
what I mean, Ororo. And you know it. I don't know why you persist in this. It's... 
it's *disgusting*. What has happened to you, that you disgust me so? These lies 
are unworthy of you." 

She pulled his hand away from her mouth with one sharp, violent movement. 
"You, who think that I would play games with your feelings, dare to judge what is 
worthy of me? You dare speak to *anyone* of worthiness to anyone, Forge? 
You, whose every breath is a waste of air, you who aids great men and then sits 
back smugly believing you have earned what they shed blood for? What legacy 
do you leave that cannot be destroyed with a sledgehammer?" Her voice fell to a 
chilling whisper. "Just how many do you think will mourn at *your* funeral?" 

The last word fell out of Storm's mouth and she felt that she would be violently ill. 

The skin at the edges of Forge's eyes tightened. He shook his head, as if 
something had struck him. 

Storm stood still for a moment, aghast at her own words, then threw herself at 
Forge and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. 

He was like rock but then his arms reluctantly wrapped around her. 

She was shaking.  As was he. 

They stood cheek to cheek.  The thudding of their hearts loud in each other's 
ears. Storm felt Forge swallow. 

"Why," she croaked, "is anger so easy with you? I am a gentle woman." 

"No." Forge said, smiling a little. "You're not. You're Beautiful. Elegant. 
Thoughtful. Serene." a quirk of his mouth beneath his brilliant black mustache, 
"Controlled. And and caring, so caring. But not gentle." He sighed. "And neither 
am I." 

"I am never so angry with others. How can you provoke me so? How come the 
words hurt so much more when they come from your mouth?" 

"It's not intentional, I assure you. Provoking you or hurting you." 

Neither spoke for a moment while they both recovered their breath and calm. 

"Forge?" 

"Yes?" 

"I cannot spend a lifetime screaming and making peace." 

His hold on her tightened. "Surely we can avoid that?" 

"I do not think so. We both already know how to control our tempers- we 
demonstrate that well enough in the fact that we have not yet argued in such a 
way with any of our other teammates. And yet that doesn't help any. No, Forge, I 
love you dearly. You are a wonderful friend. But I could not live that way." 

He sighed. "I suppose that was inevitable. All I was doing was delaying it." 

"It was a delay I enjoyed somewhat." 

"Glad to hear it." He released her, and gave her a nod. "I'd better be going."

"Yes, you had better." She followed him through the door, however, and down 
the hall. Something still had to be said... *Oh, yes.* "I did not mean those horrible 
things I said, you know." 

He paused, and met her eyes. She repeated, "I did not mean them. I just cast 
around for whatever was the most hurtful." 

"I think it hurt so much because it was true, Ororo." 

She smiled slightly at him. "I know it cannot be." She took his arm, and kissed 
him on the cheek. "It cannot be, because I for one will be weeping oceans at 
your funeral." 

"Thank you." They reached the front door, and he took her hand and kissed her 
palm. "I'm flattered. To have you as a mourner is more than anyone could ask. 
When you weep, the heavens weep with you." 

She opened the door for him, calling after him in a much more practical tone 
than he had used, "Then again, there is a chance you will outlive me." 

A dismissive wave of his hand showed what he thought of that idea. He got into 
his car, and Storm watched him until he disappeared from view. 

*** 

Storm opened the door. Bobby thought she looked happy to see him, but he 
wasn't sure if it was an equal amount of happiness as she would have had for 
any X-Man. She gave away nothing, saying only, "I do not think your bank 
account can take much more of this kind of travel." 

"Well, my parents' paid for half of the Alaska trip. My mom didn't know Jean 
*that* well, but she rather liked her, and was more than glad to aid me in 
comforting a friend in mourning." He lugged his suitcases back in for the zillionth 
time. "But let the record show that I would have refused if Mom hadn't been so 
persistent. I guess it makes her feel good to give her only son money." 

"Before you go upstairs to unpack," Storm said, drawing him to the side, "come 
have a drink with me in the kitchen. I have been at rather loose ends all day. 
Forge and I at last finalized our break-up this morning, and it has been difficult to 
focus on anything since then." 

He realized she was watching him closely, and he schooled his face into an 
expression of dismay. "That's too bad..." 

"Not really." 

"Um," he tried to think of what he could say to such an unanswerable statement, 
"bad break-up?" 

"The part before it was bad. The break-up itself had the inherent comfort of being 
the right thing to do." 

"Oh. Huh." Both apologies and congratulations- especially congratulations- 
seemed out of place. So he said nothing. 

She was still watching him, her expressive blue eyes seeming to absorb every 
tiny variation in his expression. His no doubt very readable expression. *Who 
needs telepathy when the person has little thought bubbles floating over their 
head?* 

"You know," said Storm, "I did mean that kiss in the kitchen." 

"It wasn't that I didn't think you didn't... I mean," he floundered, "I didn't think you 
were playing games with me or anything. I just thought that maybe you were 
uncertain of what..." 

Apparently, the Force was with him. Storm cut him off mid-sentence in what had 
been demonstrated to be the most effective method of Bobby-silencing that 
didn't involve a gun. This time, no surprised hesitation on his part.
He wrapped his arm around her and kissed her back, her mouth warm and 
exhilarating, and the kiss made so much more enjoyable by the fact that you 
didn't have to worry about it being the first *and* the last one. 

"This is a hallucination, isn't it?" he murmured. "Or a dream, at least." 

Ororo smiled, resting her head on his shoulder. "It had better not be, or I promise 
you, heads will roll when I wake up." Bobby's hold on her tightened, as if she 
would vanish, dream-like, from his grasp. 

"Storm?" It was Rogue's voice, and Bobby released Storm abruptly, flushing 
slightly. Ororo only smiled. 

"There you are!" declared Rogue, entering the room. "Oh, Bobby, yer back! Ya 
need to give me a complete report on how Jean is! In a minnit, at least. 'Ro, you 
won't *believe* what that drain's managing to hack up. Ah tell ya, we need to fly 
Hank back here just so he can clean it out, then send him back. It'd be worth the 
extra trouble just so none o' us would have to deal with the thrice-damned thing." 
She dragged Storm off, and Ororo managed to spare one glance in his direction 
before she disappeared. Bobby smiled reassuringly at her. 

He then went to get himself a drink, wondering why he had been so worried 
about a rival thwarting his intentions, when it was clearly his friends he had to 
worry about.


****

CHAPTER IX 

Things were getting unbearable. 

It wasn't in the good ol' classic sense of unbearable, either. None of the X-Men 
were being particularly obnoxious, no horrible secrets were tearing the team 
apart, there were no unsolved murders which caused the residents of the X-
mansion to regard each other with suspicion in their eyes, and the weather was 
pretty good for late winter. In fact, things were well on their way to running 
themselves, the invisible gash which had torn through the team at Scott's death 
was well on its way to being  healed. 

No, *life* was good. Life was fine, extremely bearable. Life was just dandy, in 
fact. 

The problem was Storm. 

No, Bobby reflected, that wasn't at right. Storm was a solution unto herself, a 
beautifully vibrant patch of confidence radiating... well, radiating something that 
he needed. The problem was everyone else. 

Bobby scowled at the computer, but the computer made no answering 
expression, probably realizing the scowl wasn't intented for it. That scowl was for 
every other non-Ororo occupant of the mansion. He supposed they should make 
it general knowledge that they were... were... a couple? Yeah, a couple. Even 
though probably half the team was aware, and the other half probably suspected 
it, the idea still made him nervous; there seemed no way to do it. They could 
make an announcement of course, but that just didn't seem right.  
*Announcements* were for deaths and births and confessions and other major 
changes. You only made an announcement about a relationship if you were 
getting married, or the relationship was with someone of the same sex, since you 
really had to make sure people were clear on things like that. 

Bobby pretented to do some work, but his mind wasn't on the numbers on the 
screen. Truth be told, he wasn't even sure where he *stood* with Storm. They 
tip-toed around each other. Immersed themselves in working on the house. 
Sometimes he caught her looking at him with desire in her eyes. She almost 
kissed him by the stairs, once. Wound her hand in his shirt and leaned into him, 
but the phone rang. He'd answered it. She'd leaned her head against his 
shoulder, hugged him one armed, let go of him, and not looking back walked into 
the house. 

The on-screen numbers darted completely out of the range of his 
consciousness, a beautiful new image taking their place, if only in his mind's eye. 
Hell, it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure it out. It didn't even take an 
accountant. 

A romantic getaway, he even had his ideal itenerary in mind. How perfect was 
that idea? He loved the cold and there was nothing quite like having a girlfriend 
who's immune to the weather. 

The vision faded and the black-on-whiteness on the screen reappeared. Dammit, 
could they really go blowing so much money on some little fantasy of his? They 
were gaining fanancial stability, but 'surplus' really wasn't something they could 
include in their economic vocabulary at the moment. Then again, they didn't 
have to go *far*. Just Ororo's presence would make a trip to Motel 6 downright 
sybaritic. But Storm deserved better. Much better. Bobby was good at small 'n' 
sweet, but much better always seemed to have slipped through his grasp like a 
wet bar of soap. 

He leaned back in his chair, hands grasping the edge of the desk, chewing on 
his lower lip thoughtfully. There had to be *something* he could do.... 

*** 

The Professor offered him a seat, but Bobby shook his head. He wasn't quite 
sure why, but he felt more comfortable standing. 

He had already discarded the idea of opening with, *Professor, when have I ever 
asked you for a favor?* Too demanding, too insistent. Too unjust to a man who 
had done so much for him. Instead, he settled on a slightly apologetic and very 
teenage-Bobby-esque, "Uh, Professor, I was wondering if maybe I could ask you 
for a favor." 

The Professor tented his fingers and looked curious. "I was wondering if I could 
borrow the Blackbird." There. A simple demand, but also a very unreasonable, 
inconvenient one, especially if its use was only for the sake of saving money. 
Bobby knew that full well. He still wanted the damned thing, though. 

"May I ask why?" 

Bobby briefly considered answering *No* to see what would happen. Probably 
nothing except the man's eyebrows climbing a bit higher. "It's for personal, or 
semi-personal reasons, actually, so I'll understand completely if you refuse. It's 
just that you have the Aurora Jet in case of emergencies, and it really doesn't 
look like any'll be arising any time soon." 

"So- if I understand correctly- you wish to take the Blackbird just for the sake of 
flying it around?" Xavier asked. 

"No! Actually, I thought it could save me some money and a couple of days. 
And," he stumbled over this part a bit, "I thought I'd take Ororo. She's been 
working so hard, and I think she really needs some time to relax. You know how 
these leader types are. You need to force 'em to take a vacation." 

"Ah, quite. But I was under the impression that Storm's been rather more relaxed 
recently. I hardly think *she* needs a vacation." Bobby's heart sank. Xavier 
continued, "If anyone needs one on those grounds, it's me. Would you take me 
instead, Bobby?"  Bobby looked up sharply, panicked, but then saw the look on 
the Professor's face. He was *laughing* at him, damn it! Xavier's mouth was 
straight, but his eyes were lit with unholy amusement. 

"Well," said Bobby, consdidering, "if you *really* want to go with me..." 

"No, that's all right, Bobby." He smiled briefly, the smile sliding onto his face and 
slipping back off almost immediately. "Yes, you may take the Blackbird. And 
Ororo, though you hardly need me to tell you that. But I expect you to keep this 
journey as brief as your will-power will allow. Not that I place any great reliance 
on your will-power holding up against, ah, such great tempations." 

"Yes, sir. Yes to the 'keeping the journey brief' part, I mean." He gave Xavier a 
half salute, as he occasionally felt an uncontrollable urge to do, and turned to 
leave the room. 

"Enjoy yourself!" The Professor called as Bobby closed the door behind him. 

Bobby stood in the hall way, waiting for his no-doubt read ears to cool off before 
he continued with his arrangement. *Well, that went surprisingly well.* 

Now, the next key factor to his plans. Or, more accurately, the axis 'round which 
all his plans revolved. 

Strom was working with her plants when she saw Bobby walking towards her, 
Purpose, and definitely something else, in his eyes. Something else good, she 
thought. Hope? Joy? *Love?* 

"Bobby," she said brightly, "how are you?" 

He had been opening his mouth to speak, no doubt on something concerning his 
Purpose, but now stopped and smiled shyly at her. "To be honest, really good. 
You?" 

"Nicely, thank you." 

Bobby nodded in response to his pleasantry, and then began on his intented 
subject. "'Ro, I was wondering if you wanted to come to Kobe with me?" The first 
part of the sentence was said with as much certainty as could be ingested into 
such simple words, but the second part came out more doubtfully, and his 
formerly purposeful face was now anxiously questioning. 

She didn't know what he was so anxious about. After all, the moment she had 
seen *him* enter, she knew that the answer to whatever he was going to say 
would be 'Yes' or a suitable equivalent. "Yes," she said. 

His face lit up with delight, and she felt the expression could easily replace the 
winter sunshine which streamed in through the greenhouse windows, and her 
plants would be all the better for it. "Really? Really truly really?" he asked, 
catching her in a hug. 

"Really truly really," she confirmed. 

*** 

The journey to Kobe took probably less than half the time it would have without 
the Blackbird at their disposal. They disembarked at Kansai airport without 
trouble. Ororo held his hand between 
her fingers, lightly stroking his skin.

When they reached the hotel they tiptoed around each other again- as much as 
was phisically possible in such close proximity- until Ororo excused herself for a 
flight and some shopping. 

But Bobby had a ritual that dated back to Dartmouth when there was nothing to 
do but drink and talk crap and winter had sent in for good. 

Once in a while he would sit on a porch and get quietly and peacefully drunk. Not 
aggressive frat-boy drunk, but just enough to unwind. Take his mind off of the 
little things, sleep deep and heavy through most of the next day if he didn't have 
anything planned. 

He didn't do it often, but he thought it was a thing to do, what he really wanted to 
do, with 'Ro. 

But he couldn't remember if Ororo drank at all. 

So he asked, called up the mansion. 

Kurt told Bobby champagne. Peter said the same thing. 

So feeling stupid, Bobby went to the duty free and bought a couple of magnums 
of Veuve Clicqout, opened the window a crack, and squeezed onto the snowy 
balcony. 

Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful Kobe. And somewhere out in the pink sky, Storm 
was coming for him. 

Bobby thought forming an ice bucket with his hands. Self-consciously, the ice 
cubes he formed were shaped like hearts. He frowned, and made up some 
smiley-faces and stars. 

She said she was in love with him. He'd said something pretty much the same. 
He'd have to work on that one, though. She seemed to find his nervous babble 
cute, but that didn't change the fact that he found it embarrassing. 

Hey, there she was, Ms. Ororo Monroe, in purple and white. Hat, coat, gloves, 
and long boots. 

"I thought you were 'immune' to the cold," Bobby said as she stepped out of the 
sky. The wind she brought with her was warm. 

She took off her hat. Taking his outstretched hand, she sat down beside him. 

He poured her a glass of champagne and started to talk, about Kobe, about how 
pretty it was, what he'd done while she'd been flying. 

He did this with many pauses to sip his own drink. Their hands clasped one 
another. And when Bobby had run out of words, he looked over at her. There 
wasn't much left in the magnum, and her face had a rosy glow. 

"Well, you drank that fast." 

"You are trying to get me drunk." 

*I don't need to bother. You're doing it all by yourself.* Bobby smiled. He did not 
know, did not understand that the pale blue of his eyes, and the very whiteness 
of his teeth revealed by finely shaped lips that were thin but in that smile rawly 
sensuous, did more to make her light headed than all the champagne she had 
drunk. She tilted the glass to her lips, tongue creeping out to touch the last scale 
of liquid. 

"Slow down." 

"I like champagne," Ororo said, holding the glass to her chin. 

That smile again. Though Bobby was truly immune to the cold there was an 
adorable flush to his face. 

He said, "I know." 

Looking at him from over the rim, Ororo drained her glass and poured herself 
another. 

"I never figured why you wore heels. Never jibed with your earth mother, nature-
goddess deal." 

Ororo smiled enigmatically, "I like them." 

Bobby pulled her feet onto his lap. "You even wore them when you didn't have 
your powers."  He pulled off her boots. Chuckled at socks on Ororo. "I could 
understand when you could float. But after you -" 

"Ridiculous habit." 

"Socks? I wear socks." Bobby pulled hers off. 

"Vanity. I shall have arthritis when I'm older, from running around on the balls of 
my feet so hard and so long." She sighed. 

Bobby smiled, stroking the outside of her foot, "So will I." 

Ororo tilted her head to the side. 

"Too much cold. I've been icing up, doing it a little bit wrong for so long I've got 
microscopic stress fractures.  He splayed a hand for her benefit, described an 
arc across the first joints of each finger, "I feel it here."  Bobby grinned, "but only 
in extreme cold." He poured the last of the first magnum of champagne into her 
glass. Ororo bit off her glove, wrapped her fingers around the stem, raised the 
glass to his lips. 

While Bobby sipped she said, "You love the cold." 

He rubbed the side of her leg, from ankle to knee, ankle to knee and then to 
thigh. "Yeah." 

Ororo's legs opened. He moved into the space between them. Turned his body 
so he was facing her, put his hands on the ledge on either side of her hips. It 
began to snow, lightly and softly. Making her shine. 

I'm in love with this woman, Bobby thought. 

"Yikes," he said. 

Ororo's eyes were wide. 

He heard her say, "What big eyes you have." 

"The better to see you with," he replied. 

A gust of wind made a lock of Ro's white hair rise. Bobby had no impulse to tuck 
it behind her ear. He let it fly. 
  
*** 

They lay there, in the afterglow, Ororo curled up next to Bobby like a contented 
cat as he stroked her hair. "Ororo," he murmured, just for the sake of saying her 
name. He'd found just the right way to say it- softly, letting it kind of roll out with 
your breath, each syllable blending but at the same time distinct from the next. It 
was a name that could sound kind of silly, but never, he was determined, when 
on his lips. "O'. 'Ro. Ororo. O' Munroe." 

"Stop that," she murmured back, not opening her eyes. He smiled slightly, and 
subsided, though his mind continued the game *'Ro Munroe. Ororo Munroe. 
Ororo Munroe Drake.* Woah there, boy. One step at a time. Or maybe just one 
step at all. However she wished it, whatever kind of peace he could grant her. 

There was silence for awhile, until Storm's soft alto broke it. "Bobby, this..." she 
paused. Bobby suddenly panicked back-brain began to fill in the blanks for her, 
*isn't working, won't work, is the stupidest thing I've ever done...* 

"This was a wonderful idea," sighed Storm. 

*One of my best. No, scratch that. *The* best.* 

There was another silence, the least empty silence Bobby had ever known. 
Neither one felt the need to break it for a long time afterwards. 
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