WORKING TITLE: Weather and the Single Boy-sickle 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 in their respective countries. NOTE: This story takes place after UXM 378. DATE: 16 February 2000 ************************* PROLOGUE The Xavier Institute Salem Center, New York Jean knew the extensive grounds of the Xavier Estate better than the terrain of her own mind. 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. When she opened them it was still early dusk on Xavier's estate. Her legs folded apart and she sat down heavily, putting the heels of her hands to her eyes. Her chest contracted. Her back dropped to the ground. Noise, halfway 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. In it were 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 and she smiled wider. And sat up. The fire was still smoking. She had missed that when she'd first stood. With a wave of her fingers she dispersed the smoke, stood to her feet and began the trek back to the house. She took the long way back, held onto her elbows, holding her pink cardigan type sweater, her legs almost crossing as she meandered back to the mansion. She 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 were she and Scotty had lived when they first married took her almost by surprise. They'd make out there as kids. Made love there as mock-solemn husband and sly-boots wife. Sitting cross-legged on the bed, naked with Scotty, hands touching there wasn't anything better, like breathing air, when you'd been swimming towards the surface and had taken in water, like rain on parched earth, but it was none of that, there was something about it that was so ordinary, so plain, that she couldn't imagine any other way to be with him. Fearsome crack branch sound of thunder. Thick lighting fractured the sky, and wind picked up tree branches by the tip 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 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 she'd been able to slip into his mind and know what he was thinking and feeling. Ororo had unreadable naked face down cold. The woman had picked the right window, though. "What is it, Ororo?" Jean asked. "I did not know." Body attentive Jean waited. "Did not know until he was gone how important his friendship was to me." Lighting flash revealed a glimmer of tears. 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, as he considered the teams, and Ororo. "You two are so much alike." Ororo turned her gaze out the window. "I did not realize," speech failed her. "How so very important Scot was.." Wrapping her arms around Ororo, Jean put her head on Ororo's shoulder and hugged the taller woman tight. Ororo finished speaking, her words 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 tighter, 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. Had he never met Maddie." Drawing back, Ororo held Jean at arm's length, "Jean, never." Smiling gently, "Never? If you were stuck on a dessert island together all alone? Like him and Lee?" "N-n- never. And we were, twice." "Of course not. Me being with Scotty 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, Ro. Sometimes he felt guilty that you didn't have someone. He worried about you being alone. I did, too." "Is that why you told Forge I did not love him?" "You knew about that?" "We did continue to talk, Jean." "I wanted you to have what we had, Ororo. Not, not what Scot had with -" Deep breath, "No substitutes." "The real thing." "You're angry?" "No. Not anymore. But I do not understand. But I love you. And you meant well." "I did." **************** In a lesser used hallway, Ororo walked quickly. Her feet were bare but she was dressed in honor of the occasion. Gold, gleaming and thick, was at her wrists, her ears, her neck and her fingers. Gold embroidery twinkled from the collar of cuffs the raw silk tunic she wore over matching pants. It was a magnificent outfit of the sort she had favored in her early days with the X-Men, one that had been unaccountably at Jean's parents home in Annadale-on-Hudson. Since the X-Men had started receiving visitors, Ororo had taken care to dress in full mourning. After Jean's return she had retreated to Ororo's attic and that is where Ororo stayed while Jean slept, or stared at the walls. There was no need for her to dress thus as she spent most of her time with Jean. But it was a reminder to Ororo that Scott was gone, that he was not coming back and the times that the atmosphere in the attic grew too stifling, she'd subject herself to the atmosphere of the lower manse. 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. The mansion was full of people. From all over earth and the Universe. 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 garbadine, 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 all the people, the heat of hundreds of bodies, the low level rippling sound of many voices greeting and commiserating, the smell of shoes, the track of mud on hastily stapled cheap pile carpeting on 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 so excuse me please. Instead, "Thank you for coming to share this time with us." Everyone asked after Jean. Ororo was barefoot, her hair caught up in a net, carrying a tray in her hands. Two bowls of soups, potato salad, and hors d'oeuvres that Warren had thoughtfully squirreled away in the newly cleaned out kitchen junk drawer. She walked quietly, hoping not to disturb anyone. The hallway she used was one known only by those familiar with the mansion, and mercifully, they were attending to the proceedings. The floor had been stripped to its first linoleum by Bastion's minions, and never resurfaced. Still she could hear piano music drifting from beneath the closed common room doors. Someone had slid open one of the smaller hall doors. Sean had come up and was playing Scott's favorites on a piano rented for the wake. As Scott grew used to her, Kurt, Peter, Proudstar, and Logan he would join them. Sitting in a corner chair, a book open on his lap. Never asking for the playing of a particular tune unless so prompted by one of the others. Once, after a day together (the others having gone off on separate jaunts) she and Scott had prepared a late lunch and eaten it in the tree house. 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 by the closed doors, his sleek head bowed, arms crossed across his expansive chest. Silver winked from the base of his ponytail and his hair was the very stuff of darkness. 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. His favorite mistake. 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 and brushed 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. She wore dark pants and an even darker shirt. She too, Ororo "You must eat," Ororo began without preamble. "I should go down, great 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 her freckles were showing. She wore gold 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. Ororo recognized all items of the outfit as hers. "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 me. And Charles was insistent." Jean would not wear her own clothing. She had borrowed from everyone, sat in Ororo's couch and mail ordered a modest wardrobe that she would not use. "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 pane 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?" "You'd deny a grieving widow anything?" "Jean?" Cradling the bowl in her fingertips Jean spoke to the floor. "Tell me, Ororo, 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 notice for how blasted long..." "Why do you ask, Jean?" "I need to know how he did it. How he managed. Because if Scott could do it, than I can to." Jean bent her head over her bowl of soup, tears dropping from her eyes and into the fragrant liquid. "I miss him." (Suggestions: more setting, slide in details about the crumbling house. How the funeral proceedings go on is really unimportant to me, but I want to set up parrallels b/n Forge and Ororo, Scott and Jean. Ororo probably should have a brief Bobby encounter. The weather isn't mentioned at all. I think it should reflect Ororo's internal landscape in an atypical way). Ororo Monroe, 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. Remy entered. The creak of his new leather jacket giving away his presence. He 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 for 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, chŠrie." 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 washing machine 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 that word when it was just you and me." "I was." "Non. Frightened. That 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. "L'aissez les bons temps rouler?" "Si." "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 Robert Drake, Bobby, the Iceman, entered. Saw the dropped dishtowel on the floor, picked it up and walked over to the window. 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. Stretching so he could keep Storm and Gambit in view, Bobby got a mug down from the cabinet, rinsed it in the tap. Winced as Storm's feet tangled in her sun-dress. Chuckled as she went down. 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. It looked like they were gonna kiss. They hugged. Bobby turned his back to the window. 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." Sniffed the cup and took another. 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, 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." "Robert!" He grinned. Ororo smiled, full force. "It is good to see you." Robert blinked. Looked down at his arms. Made like to look at his ears. "Truly." Ororo said, taking inventory. Robert was very tan. His changeable eyes a gentle blue. He looked well and rested, the pink of just enough sun on his nose and cheeks. His impossibly shiny sandy hair, very blond. "You look well and rested, my friend." After a moment's hesitation she grasped his upper arms, and gave him a gentle squeeze and once again smiled. He pinked. "When did you get here?" she asked, going to the sink. "'Bout an hour ago." "Is this just a visit?" she put the glass in the dishwasher. "Nope. I'm home for good." "That is wonderful." "Actually, I've been looking for you. I wanted to know if you could... you know ... start tutoring me again." "Of course." "Tomorrow? Same time, same station?" "Yes." 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. **************** Snip Bobby Ice Palace in the Danger Room. **************** *snip Bobby approaches Storm in her big attic room." This is the seriously reworked section of him and Storm talking about her and Forge for the first time (lifted from Gates). There are some elements that might be useful. I love Bobby, too. He's probably the nicest X-Men. Tying with Kurt, really, for bone deep decency and sweetness: Bobby felt he had to do something, but he was afraid of making it worse. "Or-Ororo... It's okay... Whatever it is, it can't be that bad." She sobbed harder. He touched her shoulder, "Plea-Please don't cry... It'll be all right." He sat down beside her. He placed one arm across her shoulder and his other hand on her arm. She turned her face into chest. He should not have been able to feel moisture through the unstable molecules of his uniform. Perhaps it was her tears' heat. He held her. Leaned back against the headboard and let her cry. Saw that the she was in evening clothes. Thin material and a thin strapped dress that was redder than blood. Her skin gorgeous against it. The sheets on the bed were satin. Pale as ice cream, and there was an embarrassment of candles on every level surface in the room. He fingered one of the hundred's of tiny braids in her hair, one of the one's she'd wound with gold cord. She took a few sob-free breaths and sat up, again turning her face away from him, presenting him with her perfect profile, and the side of her lipstick stained mouth. "...Forge and I we - we say the most terrible things to each other. "That I'm unable to have a life outside of the team. That I am handicapped with or without my powers." Bobby's eyes went wide. "That I am an Arctic goddess with no hope of thaw. Frigi-" "Screw that!" Bobby pushed Ororo away from him, stared into her face, "You really think that yutz knows what he's talkin' about? "Robert, I have no life outside of the X-Men." "You do?" "Six months he was in this house and I did not touch him. Avoided him. The man that I loved - LOVE." Bobby made a sound. "And I avoided him, as if he were nothing to me." "I thought he was. I thought you guys were through for good the last time. What a yutz! And where do you get off buying his shit, you broke it off aeons ago, why're you still talking with limping with wolves? He doesn't know from shoe polish..." "Robert." "Arctic princess, my bright clear behind--" "Robert." "What?! I'm mad! I can't be mad when sphincter boy guts your heart, makes you cry? makes you doubt what a wonderful, sweet, caring, passionate," Shakily, Ororo inhaled, covered his fist, oh hey, he'd been making fists, with her hand. "Robert, calm yourself." "I just, I just," Bobby stroked her hair. "You're not supposed to cry, Rain lady. You're not ever supposed to cry. Lookit you, you got snot hangin out your nose and your eyes are red and you - I hate 'im like poison. And you're not allowed to go out with him anymore!" A couple of moments of Ororo, weather, not ice, goddess staring at him helped Bobby realize that once again, he might be making an ass of himself. He laughed nervously, "Course, it's not like it's my place to say anything." "You are my friend. You have a right to your opinion, and I value it. Matters of the heart are complex, mon brave. Remy would react much the same as you." She ruffled his hair. "You're not supposed to cry. And he makes you cry. I know that much." Ororo squeezed his arms, "I appreciate your concern. But Forge is not the only person whose words have caused hurt in this relationship." "You guys still together?" "That remains to be seen." Bobby nodded, but tightened his mouth into a straight line, "I understand. But he sends you home in tears again and it's on." Ororo gave an explosive laugh. She covered her mouth. "That's better," Bobby said with a smile sliding off the bed. He started to walk away. "Bobby..." He turned back and was stunned by her tip tilted, glacial ice blue, almond shaped eyes, and all that silvery hair, shimmering dark, did make her into an arctic princess. And hadn't Loki kidnapped her once? Wanted to rule the world with her at his side? "Thank you," she said. "...For what?" Ororo drew her lips into a thoughtful line. She nodded slightly, "Thank you." Bobby raised the side of his mouth in an awkward smile. He shrugged. "Sure. Any time, Rain Lady." **************** Jeopardy is totally Gates. Some physicalities that I like here, a sort of indirect not explicitly romantic mooky moments. On the fine line of friend and cuddle-bud I think: "Oh, hey Ororo." Bobby looked over his shoulder at her as she entered the darkened den. He was sitting on the couch, his stocking feet crossed on the coffee table. Alex Trebek and the Jeopardy board flashed across the television screen. Ororo walked around the couch and sat down on the opposite end of it from him, curling her long legs up underneath herself. She absently looked at the screen. "I thought you'd be in that meeting about tactical strategies." "I was there for a short time. I have a headache so I left." "Mmm." She looked at Bobby thoughtfully, "Why do you never attend?" Lightly icing up his right hand he snorted, "Me?" He placed his hands together, increased the rate of conduction from the left hand to the right so that the right became very warm. He proffered his hand. Ororo nodded. "You have good ideas," Ororo murmured, closing her eyes. "And who'd listen to them?" Bobby asked, laying his hand over Ororo's eyes. "What do you mean?" Her eyelashes fluttered against the skin. Bobby shifted in his seat. "Come on, Storm... I'm the class clown, remember?" He removed his hand. "Bettter?" Bobby asked. She shrugged. "More?" "Yes, please. A little warmer though." Ororo snuggled down by his shoulder. Bobby put his hand over her eyes again. Ororo spoke, "You make jests, you play, this is true. But you do take things seriously when it is warranted. We all know that." "Warranted is when there's no one else around." "You demand too much of yourself." Bobby lifted his hand from Ororo's face and raised an eyebrow at her, "I demand to much of myself? Who has to live up to the mantle of a goddess?" "Well..." sliding her head to rest on the crook of Bobby's arm. "No one has to." "Dreck alert." Ororo chewed on her bottom lip. "I suppose," she said more to herself. "I am just... It feels... expected of me." ************ Your gorgeous scene: 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." Five companions played poker in a room of exquisite workmanship. Unlike the mass-market produced plywood table and fold-out chairs, the walls and moldings had been built to last and last. The five who played poker beneath the thin plastic shaded light-bulb did so for stakes that complimented their threadbare surroundings. Ones and small change made up the pot. Then Ororo upped the stakes. "Two dollars," she said, her delicate features set in a neutral expression. Her lush mouth composed. "I'll see that," Remy, shoulders easy, hands holding the cards just as easy, if not more so. His voice a velvet sound. "Me, too," said Kitty Pryde, one leg up on her chair, her arm slung over her knee. She wore her uniform, and her hair abundant hair needed washing. Bobby wrinkled his nose, "Me three." Grinned at Hank McCoy to his left. Who said: "I see that and raise you five." "Aren't we the confident bluffer tonight, blue?" "Put your money where your mouth is, Drake." "All right. And just to make it interesting, I'll raise you three more for an even ten." Ororo raised her eyebrow and glanced at Bobby from the corner of her eyes. He grinned at her. Her lustrous hair was immaculate save for tiny green gummy bear. "Bobby," "Hank?" Bobby drawled. "Have you forgotten that you are in debt to me for ten dollars from the other evening?" Putting down his money, Bobby leaned over to Storm. He smelled sandalwood, "Where do ya think I'm gonna get it from?" She rolled her eyes. Bobby reached over and pulled the gummi from the hair just above Ororo's shoulder. "Well, Henri?" Gambit asked. Bobby offered Ororo the bear. "I'm in," said Hank. Ororo shook her head, no. Bobby ate it. "Moi aussi." Ororo's lush mouth tensed in the center with suppressed something. "And me," Kitty said. "Ororo..." Peter said sticking his head into the rec room. She and Bobby looked to Peter. "There's a phone call for you. It's Forge." Ororo tensed. Bobby ran his eyes back and forth between Ororo and Peter. Ororo's eyes slowly moved down to her cards. She placed them on the table face down. "I fold," she said. Bobby opened his mouth. She pushed her chair away from the table and left the room. **************** Another really neat scene. "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. **************** Totally gates. She had Jean and Scott talking in this conversation. I just replaced the names with Kurt and Rogue. Kurt got up from the table, holding the empty orange juice pitcher. Handing it over to Rogue he said, "Oh, and Ororo, I want to implement that new battle strategy you came up with into the next full session. I think it's going to give us a real advantage." "Bobby's." "What?" "It is Bobby's strategy, not mine. He thought of it." Kurt sat down at the breakfast table. Rogue finished her sip of coffee and then put the cup down. "Really?" she asked. "That's brilliant." "You sound surprised." "Well, it's just that... I mean..." Kurt stammered. Ororo smiled over her cup of tea. "It is alright, Kurt. I understand... and so does Bobby." "Bobby's a great guy and an excellent X-Man, but..." "Bobby feels that he is looked at as the clown of the group and therefore feels the need to live up to that role." "I suppose that's true," Rogue said. "Kurt, maybe we should be giving Bobby more responsibility. That is if he wants it." "Perhaps we all should," Ororo said. **************** Totally Gates. Completely cuttable, I think. It had been a week since Bobby had kicked Forge to the curb. He was anxiously getting ready for his date with Jenna. Bobby emerged from his closet a final time, and held out his hands, "Well? What do you think?" Ororo and Hank leaned on each other. "Bobby. You outfit is satisfactory. The last outfit was satisfactory. You weren't the least offensive in the outfit before that." "And the one before that. And the one before that..." Henry continued. "You guys are a lot of help, you know that," he said looking at himself in the full-length mirror. "Choose an outfit and go." Ororo said. Bobby sighed. "I don't know why this date is freakin' me out so much. It just is. All I ask is a little help. A little honest criticism." Ororo got up and stood behind Bobby. She adjusted the brown leather jacket he wore. "You look wonderful. Jenna should not be denied such a treat." They caught each other's eyes in the reflection just then. The statuesque woman who resembled no one in the world, worshipped as a goddess, pursued by demons, gods and Kings, and Robert Drake, the youngest, least serious X-Man, even featured, potential powerhouse and boy-next-door. Neither lean, nor stout, nor tall, but next to Ororo, with her hands on his arms, her chin on his shoulder, more than all right. Bobby faced her. "Thanks, Ororo." Ororo fixed his collar. "Just remember to open the door and pull out her chair. A little pampering is a very good thing. And a first date is the perfect time for it." Adjusted his collar again. Bobby nodded and cupping her hands with his turned to Hank. Blue's eyes were brighter than Bobby would have liked. "Okay, I'm off." "Way off... Sorry it slipped out!" Hank said. Ororo brushed her thumb over his eyebrow. Smoothed the hair on the back of his head. Bobby ducked under her touch. "Oh, and Bobby..." Ororo added. "Sometime during the evening, compliment her shoes." Bobby turned to her, incredulous, "Her shoes?" "It will go a long way. You would be surprised how much effort goes into a woman's footwear." Bobby grinned. "Then why do you walk around barefoot so much?" "Dear boy," said Hank, "the lady possesses exquisite toes." "Henry, hush." Ororo grinned, "Because I am me," she said with a smile. "An' that's fine by me." "Oh, my stars and garters... Will you get going already! Or would you rather just stay here and the two of you chit chat all night?" "...I'm goin', I'm goin!" **************** Mine, mine, mine. Cuttable if you wish. After Storm had kissed him things got a little weird. 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. So, Bobby thought, hey, romantic getaway. I love the cold and there's nothing quite like having a girlfriend who's immune to the weather. Newark to Seattle, Seattle to Anchorage, Anchorage to Tokyo, Tokyo to Kobe. When they reached the hotel they tiptoed around each other 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. 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. Took his outstretched hand, 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. "Hey, you drink that fast!" "You, are trying to get me drunk." Bobby smirked. 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," Ororos 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. **************** Mine mine mine. Again, cuttable, as you wish. "One, and one, were having some fun," Bobby, as he usually did, was singing. He wore cut-offs and old keds with the toes torn out, and nothing else. His shoulders were red from too much sun and his hair bushed out from beneath his COCKS cap. He was painting the house. Happily, and with much dripping of paint. When he got to the next line of song, he twisted his hips to the left, clucked three times, and hummed in the exact same pattern of notes. "Yo, Bobster," Bobby looked down. "Warren! Buddy! Old Pal! GQ feathered gent! You come to help?" Warren considered it. "Yeah," picked up a pail and a brush and flew up beside him. "So, you and Storm?" said Warren. Bobby grinned. "Since when?" Bobby shrugged. "I dunno." "What do you mean you don't know?" "Don't know. One day, that was it." "But, What do you two talk about, Bobby." Bobby pushed his baseball cap up by the bill. Rubbed his forehead. Dipped his brush in the paint and swished it around, "Talk?" Bobby started painting, whistling the same annoying tune and following it with, "three and three." His eyes slid to their corners and he pursed his lips, "dee dee dee dee dee." "Bobby, did I hold out on you when Betsy and I got together, no matter how obnoxious you were?" "You and ninja-bunny? No." "So." "So?" "How, how, how, did you manage Ororo?" Bobby snorted softly. Scratched his shoulder. "That's going to be a nasty burn." Bobby grinned, "I know." And started to paint. Eventually Oneing and oneing, twoing and twoing, Threeing and threeing, up until ten and back to one. Cool, and perfect hands glided over Bobby's shoulders and back. "I do not believe you, Robert," said the outraged contralto of the former leader of the X-Men. Bobby mmrphed into Ororo's pillow. "What was that?" Moving his head so his words were unobstructed Bobby said, "Mmm. Aloe."