Chapter Three: Truth
He had memories of this kitchen. As a child, his mother would bring him here when he had nightmares. She would sing softly after procuring him a cup of hot chocolate, luring him back to better dreams of sunlight and laughter.
Bishop pulled the front of his long dreadlocks back, securing it with a thin strip of black leather. He rotated sore shoulders with the motion, trying to work some of the ache from them. The trip back had been strenuous and his body screamed for sleep. So swiftly called to battle certainly hadn’t helped anything.
There would be no rest, not just yet. He had miles to go and an ache in his heart. They had told him he would not be prepared for this. With all his training, the millions of history lessons, there was nothing that could be done for his confrontation with the past on an emotional level. He should be keeping his distance, but it was increasingly hard even within the negligent space of several hours.
Bringing his hands together, Bishop took a deep breath. At least he would have some sort of ally now. Father said Beast would likely figure everything out long before anyone else. He could always talk to McCoy, no matter what the trouble.
The kitchen door swung open, revealing the bestial-looking mutant in question. He still wore his lab coat, but there was a small smile on his face as he entered. The other man said nothing as he moved around the kitchen.
Bishop heard the dull clink of glass and metal before McCoy moved toward him, holding what smelled to be coffee in plain black mugs. Good, real coffee.
“Wow,” Bishop breathed. “Thank you.”
Beast smiled, though his eyes reflected sorrow that something as simple as a cup of coffee was so important to him. Bishop tried to smile, but took a sip of the fresh, bitter brew and nearly fainted with the pleasure of it.
“Your mother is resting comfortably under the watchful eye of our resident Wolverine and the others are asleep.” Beast said calmly. “We have the freedom to speak, should you wish to. Or you may simply enjoy the delightful French Roast in your hands. We could go wild, let our hair down and dig into some Ben and Jerry’s.”
Bishop blinked. “Who are Ben and Jerry?”
Beast put a hand to his chest, gasping dramatically. “Good Lord, boy, what have your parents been doing with you?”
The younger mutant could not help himself. Though he tried to remain stoic, he found himself unwillingly smiling. It was not long before a soft chuckle left his lips. McCoy was always one of his favorite adults with that knack for always making him laugh.
“Its ice cream,” McCoy said quickly, standing. “And I always need something decadent after such a robust tussle.”
“Wait…” Bishop could feel his face lighting up with hope. “Did you just say ice cream?”
McCoy grinned like a schoolboy. “I will get two spoons.”
Anticipating the sweet treat he only vaguely remembered from a far off childhood, Bishop watched as Beast rummaged through the icebox. A small carton was removed before McCoy took two spoons from a drawer and bounced back to the table.
The two sat quietly while Beast opened the ice cream carton and handed Bishop a spoon. Slightly wary that his memory would be better than reality, Bishop gave himself a quick mental pep talk before spooning a small amount of the dessert into his mouth.
The soft, gooey chocolate ice cream laced with something that reminded him of fruit brought a smile of utter pleasure to Bishop’s lips. He hadn’t had anything so good in years. Speech was lost as he dug into the sweet treat.
“Things must be dire, indeed,” Beast said several minutes later in a low, maudlin tone. “If such simple pleasures are forgotten.”
Bishop let the ice cream in his mouth melt on his tongue as he fought with the maddening urge to keep his poker face in place, his hand close to the vest. Beast knew enough as it stood; he could cause irreparable damage to course of history. But for all of Bishop’s meticulous training, he still knew little about the actual people of this world and how events came to pass.
He knew the ripple of aftershocks, not the devastation of the earthquake.
Eyes on the spoon in his hand, Bishop watched the reflection of the dim light on the ice cream-smeared metal. Father had been right after all; he did need to talk to someone.
“Its worse,” Bishop said quietly. He cleared his throat to get the emotion out of it. “Why else would they start playing with timelines?”
“And your mother agreed to this?” Beast questioned softly.
“She didn’t like it,” he admitted. “But someone had to go. I volunteered.”
“You came here, facing a world you do not understand, the mother you left behind,” McCoy sighed. “Bishop, I’m afraid I still…”
“You’re skeptical,” Bishop smiled at his spoon before meeting Hank’s eyes. “You’re always skeptical, Uncle Hank.”
Amusement covered the young mutant’s face, as his “uncle” seemed to enjoy the simple, familial endearment.
“Mother’s big on titles,” he offered as explanation. “She’s big on family all around.”
Silence stretched between them again. Bishop took another small bite of ice cream, washing it down with the delicious coffee his uncle had provided for him. Such little things…but important ones. Bishop hoped that his mission would give his sister the wonderful taste of ice cream.
“Bishop,” McCoy spoke after several long moments of silence. “You must speak on this, at least somewhat. Holding all emotion inside will do more harm than good.”
“I can’t,” he shook his head. “I’m afraid of what my words will do to this timeline.”
“The timeline you came back to change?” Beast raised a blue brow. “You already altered it. You are only causing yourself unnecessary pain.”
He sighed. “I have to look that woman in the face and pretend she isn’t my mother. There is nothing but pain from where I sit, Uncle.”
Hank seemed at a loss for words for a moment. He reached across the table, taking a dark hand with one covered in fur. Bishop met his uncle’s eyes, expelling a breath forcefully.
“Ok,” Bishop said softly. “There is one thing I know will prove to you who I am without getting Mother and I swabbed in the med-lab.”
Without another word, Bishop reached into his pocket and produced a small holo-imager. He placed it in the center of the table, pressing the button on the side to produce the image it had captured some time ago.
The small screen flickered to life, a recording he had kept lovingly on his person for some five years now. Before both mutants, Storm appeared on the screen, her face battle-worn and smeared with dirt, her shocking white Mohawk flowing in the wind.
“Bishop,” she snapped at the man behind the imager. “Would you please stop that?”
“Of course not,” he answered quickly.
A beat later, an explosion rocked the imager, but Storm was laughing. Wolverine had landed directly on top of her.
“Hey, darlin’.”
“Why, hello there,” she replied with a matching grin.
“Ew,” came a new voice as the camera swung from the kissing couple. It focused on a tall, leggy beauty with hair the color of flax and completely white eyes. “Bish, make ‘em stop!”
“Can’t do that,” said Bishop from behind the camera. “Smile, Shardy.”
“God, you three are insane.” The blonde said with a fond eye-roll. “The world’s going to hell and you’re just standing around!”
“The world’s always goin’ to hell, honey,” Wolverine replied as the imager began to crackle.
“Yeah, yeah,” Shard replied, her image fading. “Come on, Bish, we’ve got an opening in the left flank that’s got the Munroe name written allll over it.”
“I’m there!”
The imager switched off, taking the glowing memory away. Bishop handed the slender disc to his uncle. He knew the man would take the futuristic technology apart, proving once and for all that he was exactly as he claimed.
Beast was staring at him in shock, blinking somewhat dazedly, as though he had been hit in the head with something heavy. Bishop braced himself, waiting for the stream of questions likely to hit him in mere seconds.
“Wolverine?” was all the enormous furry mutant seemed capable of saying.
“Well, yeah,” Bishop rolled his eyes. “What? Did you think my mother immaculately conceived me? I have a father.”
“But…Wolverine?” Hank shook his head.
Bishop nodded miserably. “I know. I don’t understand it. They seem to hate each other now.”
Beast frowned. “They didn’t tell you about their relationship?”
He shrugged one shoulder, looking away. “They just glossed over everything before Mother got pregnant with me.”
After regarding him silently for several moments, Beast sighed. “You must give them time, surely you cannot have been born for several years from now.”
Bishop winced.
Beast inhaled sharply. “Don’t tell me. Just…don’t.”
The younger mutant gave him a small smile. “I wasn’t planning on it.”
“Who was the girl? Shardy?”
The dark man looked away again. “My sister, Shard,” he muttered quietly.
Hank promptly slapped his forehead with a furry palm. “I don’t think I want to know any more.”
Sensitive to the fact that his uncle’s brain likely felt ready to implode, Bishop changed tactics.
“I did do something right, though,” he said flatly. “History says that Leech was killed on this day, that Mother watched him die.”
“Watched?” Hank asked, obviously taken aback.
Bishop nodded. “She was restrained and too close to Leech to use her powers. The guilt ate at her for years. Still does, if you ask me.”
“Why would they want to kill the child?” Hank mused, scratching his chin.
“To eliminate the threat,” Bishop offered. “And because the Brotherhood controls the last of the mutant cure. They’ll use it in ways you can’t even imagine.”
“Oh my stars,” Hank said, realization dawning on him.
“Yeah,” Bishop scowled. “That’s something I need to take care of. I’ll need access to Cerebro’s computer files.”
“Why?”
“I have to find the Brotherhood by Saturday, or the X-Men will be holding another funeral.”
~**~
Aside from the minor concussion and a case of having the wind knocked out of her, Storm felt fine after the Brotherhood’s futile attack. It made her blood boil, though, to know they had invaded her home, threatened to take her children from her.
That maternal instinct she always tried to tamp down was in full swing this morning.
Christina Aguilera blasted from the earphones jacked into her portable MP3 player as dawn inched over the expansive tree line. She mouthed the words, glancing up at the golden sky as the rhythmic pounding of her running shoes striking pavement kept the time.
It was her ritual, her cleansing. As Kitty liked to say “Stormy’s Me Time”. Usually, no one bothered her on the three-mile morning run around the grounds. She would listen to whatever music her friend downloaded, keeping her pace steady. At times, of course, the pace was punishing or languid.
She started the strange custom just after arriving at the mansion some years past. Running kept the wanderlust at bay those first years. Now it cleared her mind, gave her time to mull over problems or emotions.
It gave her time to quell the impulse to murder Wolverine with his own claws.
No man on earth needed to be so damned stubborn. He adamantly refused to allow her to make any decision without extensive argument. He second-guessed her at every turn, undermining her authority over the children “ with said children usually in the room “ every time he felt the urge to irritate her.
More often these days, Ororo wound up venting to Henry about his behavior. All Henry would say most of the time was that things would work themselves out. She had no help in dealing with the Wolverine.
What made the entire situation worse was the fact that he sought her out, no matter if someone else could help him with whatever particular problem he needed solved at that exact moment. He could not go a single day without picking a fight with her.
While she appreciated his staying on, knowing it was something Charles would have wanted, the man irked her. He danced upon her last nerve until she thought she would explode. He was wonderful with the children and took over Cyclops’ classes, but there were days she would give good money to see him drive off into the sunset on his pilfered motorcycle.
At least he would not bother her now. He learned, very quickly, that no one came to Ororo during her run.
She supposed there was something comforting about the continuity in Logan’s urgent summons. Every hearty bellow of her name reminded her that he had stayed with her when the others passed on without her. She knew, without either of them saying, that his influence had directly led to Henry turning down the offer as a United Nations Ambassador.
But he was so damned stubborn!
No man had any right to be such an enormous pain in the posterior only to turn around a heartbeat later to knock her knees out with a sexy smirk. That was irritating as shit.
At least when he had pursued Jean, Ororo was safe from even imagined longing. Logan’s heart had belonged to the deceased telepath since the moment they met. Ororo thought it was sweet, if misplaced. She could vividly recall several conversations with Jean on the subject. The general consensus was while Wolverine was handsome, roguish, and had a smile that could tempt a nun into sin, he was off limits.
Jean was devoted to Scott.
She had also tried to encourage Ororo to look at him as more than just a thorn in her ass. Had Logan stuck around after his first encounter with the X-Men, Ororo had the terrible feeling that her beloved friend would have attempted matchmaking.
Ororo would admit to a certain primal attraction, which was easily written off as sexual frustration. It had, after all, been quite a while since she had any physical contact that did not require batteries.
Shaking her head to clear it of thoughts of Wolverine, Ororo grinned as her music switched to the immortal genius of European techno-master Scooter. Humming to the throbbing beat, her pace increased to keep up with the vibrating tempo. She glanced back up at the morning sky, smiling slightly.
That fleeting smile was wiped from her lips a beat later when a tall, dark figure fell easily into step beside her. Annoyed now, Ororo glared at the stoic, expressionless face of Bishop as he jogged beside her.
He was staring straight ahead, something loud blasting out of a small earpiece. Without a word, he glanced to her and increased his pace.
Feeling that challenge bring her hackles up, she rushed to outdistance him. He moved easily in step with her, and then outran her once more. Ororo caught up, feeling her competitive drive kick into high gear.
In seconds, the two of them were racing down the path. Ororo pushed her body into a full tilt run with everything she had left, uncaring that sweat was pouring down her face, making her clothing cling to her curves.
Bishop’s dark flesh gleamed with the sheen of sweat now covering him. His breathing was labored as they rounded the greenhouses, heading for the long stretch that would take them back to the mansion.
He quickly sprinted away from the X-Men leader, leaving her in the proverbial dust. Ororo gaped at him, surprised at how fast a man that big actually was. She slowed her pace again, feeling the burn deep inside her muscles, her bruised lungs crying for reprieve.
As the back door to the mansion appeared, she slowed to a walk with one hand on her aching hip. Bishop continued down the path at his uncanny pace. When Ororo reached the steps, she stopped, watching him carefully as he moved further and further away.
Noticing Hank had appeared at her side, she took the towel and water bottle he handed her after removing the earphones from her ears. Not bothering to look at her enormous blue friend, she watched Bishop slowly disappear.
There was something to this man who claimed to know the future. She squinted at his vanishing form in the bright morning sunlight. It surprised her when she realized she was beginning to accept his claims. Perhaps because of the battle the previous afternoon or the simple fact that something in her “gut” “ as Logan referred to it “ told her he was legitimate, but she believed him.
“He has requested access to Cerebro’s computer files,” Henry said quietly. “But for that I need your authorization.”
Storm wiped the sweat from her brow. “If he wants access, he can ask me.”
Hank regarded her calmly. “Yes, my dear.”
Ororo waited until Bishop was out of her eye line completely before she turned and moved into the house to start her day.
~**~
He watched her from the window in the upstairs hall as she ducked back into the house. Hank shook his head after her, then turned as though searching for the jogging Bishop. The darker man had disappeared into the expansive grounds, keeping his pace almost punishing.
It was something of a habit for Logan to watch Ororo on her daily run. From his window, he could see every turn she made around the greenhouses until he lost sight of her in the tree line where Bishop had just vanished to.
He often wondered what drove her to run at five every morning. She’d been doing it since his first visit to the mansion, surprising him one of the first mornings after he awoke in the med-lab after Liberty Island. He’d gone out to be alone and found himself and found himself staring at an aloof weather manipulator chasing whatever she was looking for in the quiet dark before dawn.
Since the deaths of more than half her family, Logan watched her retreat into a hole deep inside. She’d shown him after Alkali Lake that there was personality and fire beneath the icy exterior she portrayed to the world. Her damn challenges to him always weighed heavily on his mind, driving him to thoughts about home and permanence he’d never before entertained.
And yet, she kept her distance as though she’d spent a lifetime doing just that. The children, Wolverine, and even to some extent Hank were kept at arm’s length. In the aftermath of Phoenix’s destruction, Logan had expected anger, grief. He’d prepared himself for it, wanting to prove to her that he wasn’t just a nomadic jackass as he assumed she considered him.
In no way was he prepared for her calm. She had simply taken up the Professor’s school, dealt with the lawyers, counseled the children as though she felt nothing.
That, more than anything, led to the little game he continued with her. Picking at her, prodding her until he was sure she entertained thoughts of murder. At least she was reminded that he was still there, that he had no intention of leaving. It probably wasn’t the best way to be there for her, but it had been in motion by the time he realized what he was doing.
Well, partially. She irritated the shit out of him. Her cool composure, stick-up-the-ass attitude and righteous superiority just got under his skin. He wanted to crack the ice around that woman, to see what kind of fire lay dormant beneath the wintry surface. The poking at her became his retaliation for crimes she likely didn’t know she committed.
No woman had any right being that damn stubborn and cold when she looked like that. Oh, his heart still mourned for lost Jean, but Ororo had taken over other parts of him. That was irritating as shit. How could he properly irritate her if he kept waking in the middle of the night from sweat-inducing erotic dreams?
He chalked it up to his being male and her being the only female in the vicinity over eighteen.
She was a looker, no denying. Delicate features etched into soft, caramel flesh with those expressive dark eyes and unique snowy hair often filled idle thoughts. When he pissed her off, her face would flush, reminding him that she could actually shove a lightning bolt up his ass if he pushed too far. Logan happened to enjoy danger, perhaps that was the allure.
He waited for several minutes until he was sure she was in the kitchen, getting everything ready for the breakfast rush. Before he moved from the window, he caught a glimpse of Bishop moving around the track again. The dark mutant had determination and icy cool all over him. It reminded him of Storm, in some weird way.
Though he wasn’t one to trust easily, he couldn’t help it with Bishop. Something in the man’s eyes told Logan this wasn’t to be easily dismissed. He had to taken this entire ordeal on a leap of faith, no matter how insane it sounded. Bishop was here for a reason and everything in Logan’s body told him to close his eyes and jump over the precipice between logic and faith.
Familiarity. That’s what it was. There was something so damned familiar about that guy.
Sighing at his own, sentimental thoughts, Logan lit his cigar and stomped down the stairs. If he didn’t get down soon, he’d miss his morning bout with Storm. That would just send his entire day out of whack.
Before he hit the bottom of the staircase, he inhaled deeply and bellowed: “STORM!”
He didn’t need to see her face to know she’d just rolled her eyes toward the heavens for strength.
“What?” came the already irritated reply as she entered the hall.
Damn, he’d almost missed her.
“We gotta talk, woman,” he snarled while inwardly laughing. Logan pulled an envelope from his back pocket and thrust it at her.
She took it with a slightly raised brow as her water bottle tilted up for her to drink. When she brought it back down, Ororo sighed. “I have asked you repeatedly to stop referring to me as ‘woman’.”
“What would ya like me to call ya?” Logan countered.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she brushed past him, moving up the staircase. “Storm, Ororo, Professor Munroe.”
Logan made a face at her back.
“I saw that.”
He fought a smile, following her up the stairs. “Anyway, Storm wanna explain that?”
She tossed the now empty water bottle into the trashcan on the landing before glancing at the envelope.
“This? It’s your pay stub, Wolverine,” she said simply, thrusting it back at him when he fell into step beside her.
“Yeah? So why is the balance negative 6 grand?”
The slow, sideways smile that curved her luscious lips threatened to take his knees out. No damn way a woman should be that damn sexy without even trying. It wasn’t right.
“Well, you did use my business credit to buy Marie’s tickets to Germany.”
Logan came to a dead halt in the hallway. “What?”
Ororo turned on him, raising that seductive brow again. “Do I look stupid?”
He honestly had no answer for that. Storm tossed him a flirty smile and turned on the heels of her white and blue sneakers. Astonished that he’d been busted and busted hard, Logan gave immediate chase.
“I ain’t payin’ this,” he snarled as she unlocked her bedroom door.
“You don’t have to,” she shot back. “I am garnishing your wages.”
“WHAT?”
With her Lycra-clad hip, she pushed into her bedroom, taking the stack of messages someone always slipped under her door. Logan didn’t care whose room they were entering; they were finishing this conversation.
The scent hit him before he even noticed the furnishings. Rain and snow and all those things nature provided saturated the room. At first the scent disoriented him, he thought they had somehow walked outside. It took several seconds for him to realize it was her scent, unaltered by several dozen others.
“I said I am garnishing your wages, Wolverine,” Storm replied as she scanned her messages.
He took a moment to stare at her. Hair a mess, not a drop of makeup on her face, her simple blue tank and white Lycra pants, she should have looked like hell. Instead, Logan saw her as the world should have. Beauty, danger, the ferocity of the elements all wrapped into this innocently buttoned up schoolteacher.
How the hell was that fair?
Logan had to blink twice to get his thoughts in order. He really, really needed to get himself laid before his hormones got the best of him.
“You can’t do that.” Logan fought her, balling his hands into fists.
“Actually,” she countered without looking up. “I can. I am the administrator and headmistress of this school, which you are an employee of. I can do whatever I like.”
He glared at her. Unperturbed by his anger, Ororo took the earphones dangling over her shoulder and collected the slender MP3 player from the clip on her pants. She frowned at a set of messages, shaking her head to herself.
“I earned that money,” Logan said as he came closer. “Dealin’ with those brats all day.”
“Of course you did,” Storm murmured absently. “And you spent it as well.”
“This is fucked up.”
His swearing recaptured her waning attention. It wasn’t any fun to fight with someone who wouldn’t fight back, after all.
“Watch your mouth,” she fired back, her dark eyes flashing. She looked around suddenly, as though realizing for the first time that he had stealthily invaded her personal space. “Get out of my room.”
“Nuh-uh,” Logan said. He shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re gonna pay me.”
“No,” she disagreed. “You are going to pay me. I can’t afford to buy round trip tickets to Germany for every former student I’ve got.”
“We gonna get into that again? She’s still one of us.”
“No, she isn’t.”
“Damn, now you sound like Magneto.”
Whoops. Logan inwardly winced. He had just crossed that imaginary line; jumped right over it with all six claws blazing. The flash of hurt that came over her lovely face made him want to duck his head in shame. He fought the urge, meeting her gaze defiantly.
“Get out of my room.”
“No.”
He realized what she was going to do a minute too late. She glanced at the open door behind him and then thrust one hand out in an almost careless motion. The force of her suddenly gathered winds hit Logan square in the chest. He toppled backward, tossed out of the room and into the hall. Her bedroom door slammed closed as he hit the deck and slid several feet.
Collecting himself, Logan propped himself up on his hands and stared at the closed door.
“Bitch,” he snarled under his breath.
“Jackass,” he clearly heard her mutter from behind the closed door.
One of these days they were going to end up killing each other, he was certain of it.
