Chapter Six: The Sun Goes Down
You’re not alone, together we stand
I’ll be by your side, you know I’ll take your hand
When it gets cold, and it feels like the end
There’s no place to go, you know I won’t give in
Keep holding on
~Avril Lavigne
Not very often did Storm find herself with idle hours. Pressures of Xavier’s legacy could press in on all sides, forcing her to look after endless details and limitless demands. She never wanted such responsibility, preferred instead to allow Charles to groom Scott into his heir apparent.
But after seeing to Kitty, after the children were tucked into beds and young adults lounging in the Den with a Die Hard marathon, she found herself out of things to do. Paperwork was complete, emails and faxes answered, bills paid. She managed to work all through the day following Wolverine’s startling admission, clearing everything from her desk in a matter of hours. Though she adored being caught up, she fervently wished for something else to occupy her time.
So it was with great resolve and the comfort of her Snoopy pajamas that Ororo found herself leaning over the pool table, a cue held expertly between her fingers. Forge was off in Washington for the next few days, or so he explained from the plane. She wasn’t sure if they were really “on again” this round of if she’d simply used him for a spectacular one-night stand. Either way, Storm thought perhaps solitude was the order of the evening.
Shutting out the noise from the Den by closing the enormous French doors, she slipped in a disc of Linkin Park, to be quickly followed by Red Hot Chili Peppers and Staind. Her music tastes continually amused the children in her care, many of them shocked and appalled that someone her age knew whom in the name of the Goddess Nickelback was. Ororo loved music and subscribed to no particular genre. If she heard a song and happened to like it, the CD became part of her expansive collection.
Loreena McKennitt did wonders for anxiety, often found drifting through her office while she worked. Her fondness for the chimes and drums of Deep Forest usually followed her into the greenhouses. Styx, Journey, Aerosmith, and Queen continually screamed out of car speakers or her bedroom when she went on a cleaning spree.
The nu-metal phase might be recent, but she found it particularly useful when one was feeling slightly off-balance, a lot depressed, and somewhat irritated. A person could lose herself in Chester Bennington’s hearty wails and gut-wrenching screams. It happened to be a late-night billiard game favorite for the school’s headmistress.
Usually when Linkin Park or the Chili Peppers blared from the speakers, the students gave her wide berth. There was a time, not so long ago, when her musical choice might bring Scott from the comfort of his bed to the Rec Room. He never asked, but gave blissful silence while shooting pool. Those memories were with her tonight.
Mike and Chester started off one step closer to the edge as she broke the racked balls, scattering them over the deep felt with a crack of satisfaction. Ororo eyeballed the arrangement, skirted the table, bent at the waist and took another shot.
Thinking about Scott brought almost unbearable sorrow tonight. She didn’t know how she felt about Wolverine’s sudden understanding and harsh diatribe. He’d been so correct, she thought heatedly. She hated Jean. That simple, undeniable truth brought the weight of guilt fully onto her heart.
In life, Jean had been the sister Ororo always wanted. Their early years in Xavier’s haven brought them closer than blood relations, clinging to one another in absence of familial normalcy. It was Storm that first broke through Jean’s sorrow, to understand how her power terrified the young girl until it drove her close to madness. Ororo remembered so many nights lying awake in the room they shared, huddled under flashlights reflected on the ceiling, sharing all those secrets they would never repeat.
As they grew into adulthood, their similar likes and interests caused a minor rift. Ororo paused, her torso flattened to the table. No, she admitted. Storm herself caused the rift, knowing how the brilliant redhead felt about their cycloptic brother. She stepped aside when it seemed Scott returned those feelings, letting her heart break at the same time it rejoiced.
When Jean got bogged down in her medical training, Ororo and Scott inched closer, a bond forged with the absence of their missing family. He’d loved her, Ororo mused with a fresh wave of pain. Oh, Scott loved the beautiful, extraordinary Jean. Though he always kept Storm included, an eager part of their little family, there was that little voice in the back of her head that continued to tell her she’d never be good enough for him.
Had she given in, there might have been more resentment for the bubbly happiness her dear friends were saturated in. Instead, she drifted toward safe relationships, never having to give more than she wanted to. Physical pleasure in lieu of love, companionship where there might be romance. She liked it that way, need it that way.
All because the man she foolhardily fell for loved someone else.
In all those years, neither Scott nor Jean ever caught on to what dwelled in her heart. They assumed she wasn’t ready for love, for the steadfast type of relationship they had. Even Charles did not know until far too late in the game. Had she hidden it that well? Or did they simply not care enough to notice?
Somewhat shamed by her tortured, nasty thoughts, Ororo knocked the 8-ball into a side pocket. She knew they loved her, each of her departed friends. A family like no other, she thought, reminded of Bobby’s showdown with Wolverine before the battle.
X-Men? What does that mean, aside from the X on your chest?
It means we fight to protect…
Those who hate and fear us? Yeah, I’ve heard that one, but it’s just words.
No, that’s not what it means. It means we’re a family. All of us and we fight as one or not at all. That’s what it means.
That speech, aided by Kitty’s interjection, proved to Ororo in one instant that she’d done the right thing. Iceman, one of the students longest under Xavier’s care, willingly set aside the grief, the uncertainty and told Wolverine exactly what the hell they fought for. She thought she might burst with pride in that moment, knowing how Charles would have loved hearing the usually-goofy Iceman lay down the law for Wolverine.
They handled themselves well, even when pitted against Magneto’s madness, bloodthirsty mutants and the limitless mental capacity of their old science teacher. Even when Wolverine laid the still-warm body of the Phoenix at her feet, the younger X-Men kept their wits. Kitty choked a little, Piotr blinked back unshed tears, and Bobby’s jaw set a hard edge. But they kept on fighting, helped the wounded, saved lives.
Her babies, Ororo thought, racking the billiards once more. They were growing up right before her eyes, a marvelous metamorphosis from awkward teenager to strong-willed adult. How wonderful to watch such a transformation, to help it along. Charles must have died a man of enormous pride, knowing what his life accomplished.
Had Bobby’s speech kept Logan locked into the mansion, unwilling to leave? Or was it her own determined face-off, demanding that if he was with them, to be with them. She needed him in that moment, needed someone to choose her over Jean. No matter how selfish the realization was Ororo knew it to be true. Jean had just killed the man they both loved and the only father they truly had. Wolverine couldn’t see past the end of his goddamn misery long enough to understand that with everything weighing her down, Storm needed one ally.
Just. One.
He turned his back as well, went after the untouchable Jean. God, that still got under her skin. He just walked out, left her to deal with the aftermath while chasing an insane mutant. Didn’t he understand? She was not their Jean any longer, but something twisted and dark. She never felt they found Jean alive, her dear friend died that day at Alkali Lake.
What came back was just a body, housing a diseased mind. She’d mourned once; she did not have enough heart left to grieve again.
Another crack sent the balls scattering, Ororo trying to order her thoughts as Chester wailed on. She idly scratched at a cotton-covered thigh, her low-slung pajamas resting at her hips. The long tunic she pulled over top covered her backside, keeping her comfortable even with the immunity to cold.
Logan knew. How ridiculous. She could lie by omission to everyone she’d known since coming to the United States, except Wolverine. He ferreted out her secret, held it out to her like a bloodied prize. Ororo hoped the idiot man realized that she lost as much, if not more, than he that terrible night in San Francisco. Whoever said it was better to have loved and lost needed to be castrated with a white-hot cattle prod.
He would not tell anyone, she thought, leaning over the table again. Logan had at least some good manners, and besides, who the hell was he going to tell? Hating that her secret became his weapon, she tried to push it out of her mind. Wolverine was best kept at double arm’s length, carefully separated by walls and decorum. They needed one another to run the school, but both understood that friendship might just be too much to ask for.
An alarm brought her head up sharply, glaring at the ceiling. The deep, rhythmic hum of a Klaxon screamed throughout the mansion, alerting the X-Men that something was afoot. Without thinking, Ororo dropped her pool cue and bolted for the door. She slid it open far enough to slip into the hall, sprinting once she was free for the elevators to take her below.
Logan met her in the metallic hallways of the lower levels, the other two X-Men jogging up behind her. Ororo darted into Cerebro’s mainframe room, manipulating the keypad Forge installed just after the Professor’s death. She might not be a telepath, but the massive computer could still locate new mutants in danger and keep tabs on the X-Men away from the mansion.
“What is it?” Wolverine questioned, standing beside her in worn sweats and a bare chest.
Ororo’s eyes flickered over the information displayed, hitting the tab key to zoom the satellites on the distress signal of their beloved Shadowcat.
“Is that Kitten?” Logan growled, clenching his fists as he tried to keep up with Ororo’s quick search. “What’s goin’ on?”
She located what she was after, blinking in confusion. “Kitty and Warren are in some kind of trouble. Shadowcat activated her distress beacon. It looks like they’re still at the benefit.”
“Someone run outta caviar?” Bobby attempted to lighten the mood.
But Peter stared at the screen not bothering to blink. “No, but Warren did mention his father was worried about security.”
“Anti-Mutant?” Logan inquired, growling low in his throat.
“We’ll figure it out when we get there. Suit up.” Storm ordered her men, uploading the coordinates to the awaiting Blackbird. “Colossus will fly co-pilot.”
They nodded and dispersed quickly. Storm straightened her spine, remembering a quote Beast happened to be fond of.
Once more into the breach, dear friends, once more…
~**~
She felt like Grace Kelly, all glamour and beauty, locked in a world filled with flashing light and brilliant smiles. Surreal, that was the word. Like a life lived in a movie, she mused, concerned only with the swirl of bright colors and the vibrant hum of many voices.
A trip down the red carpet was unlike any experience she’d ever had. Cameras flashed, reporters and paparazzi screamed for Warren’s attention. He’d paused upon exiting the limo, stood proudly, smiled, waved. Like royalty, Kitty thought, though Prince William had nothing on the casual cool Warren kept through the whole affair.
He helped her from the car, bringing her fully into the light while the excited buzz reached pitched frenzy. “Who’s that, Warren!” “The Worthington heir with a brunette beauty on his arm!” “Warren! What’s her name? Look here, gorgeous!”
What a thrill. Standing next to Warren, his hand holding hers tightly as though to comfort or be comforted. She’d noted the dancing sparkle of his eyes and wondered if he took pleasure in seeing her completely enraptured. Her heart thudded quickly, the flashes of camera equipment blinding her to anything not centered on that carpet and it’s occupants. She smiled brightly, waved a little when shutters clicked excitedly.
Warren gave a few interviews, championing the mutant cause, which the benefit hosted. He spoke with affection of his father’s work outside of the laboratory, of his now “outed” status as a mutant. He released her hand so the reporters could snap pictures of those pure, angelic wings. Kitty was certain at least a dozen females in the vicinity sighed as though a beloved Bronte hero came suddenly to life.
He introduced her to several reporters, having asked before if she would mind her name plastered all over New England’s society pages linked with his. There might be talk, he’d explained quietly, of them dating. Kitty simply winked and replied: “There are worse people to be linked to, War. It’s no problem.”
No matter how utterly silly it was, Kitty had snapped several pictures of her own on that carpet, preserving the moment for tomorrow when everything seemed as though a dream. She caught Warren speaking to reporters, captured a few celebrities sympathetic to the cause, and asked for the reporters to cheer for her. Kitty thought they might consider her below Warren’s class, but his laughter assured her that he didn’t mind. He even grinned, leaned over the railing protecting the rich and famous from the cameras, putting bunny ears behind the head of a New York Times journalist.
That part was over now. Kitty looked around the expansive, gilded ballroom with a quick, dreamy grin. She fit right in with the posh environment, her fabulous John Galliano standing out among the primary clad women. She should have felt exposed, but instead reveled in the uniqueness.
“Doing ok?” Warren whispered as they eased through the crowd.
Kitty wished she had another five sets of eyes, wanting to see everything at once. The linen-draped tables set with thick candles and sprays of beautiful white lilies. Waiters in smart uniforms and matching bow ties holding trays of bubbly champagne circled through the crowd. Drapes of rich emerald velvet covered enormous French doors, each set leading to the tall balcony where one might indulge in a cigarette or breath of fresh air. A podium settled at the center of a long “high table” where the benefit’s hosts would be seated.
Everything was in various hues of deep green and rich gold. People filled the beautiful room, all of them dressed to the nines. Women donned gowns of varying lengths, styles, and colors, though black and white were principal. Jewels dangled from wrists and necks and earlobes, making Kitty wonder how much each person cost to dress this evening.
Men stood in delicious suits, each a dark shade, each covering a masculine form with high sophistication. Kitty never thought tuxedos or expensive suits were her taste, but looking around the room, she noted several men delicious enough to gobble up.
But Warren took the cake in all his virtuous glory. He stood so proudly, moved with a fluid grace that spoke of his upbringing. She glanced at him, beamed.
“I’m doin’ great. It’s like a fairytale!” Her exuberance widened his smile.
He held a crooked elbow out for her to take, making Kitty’s heart skip. “Well, you are Cinderella, so I guess it’s only fitting.”
She took his arm with the hand not clutching her purse, enjoying the refinement as she never thought possible. Storm was right; it did feel good to be a girl. “Does that make you my Prince Charming?”
Something passed over his blue eyes, here one moment and then gone the next. Kitty worried for an instant, but that “devil may care” grin chased doubt away.
“Come on, lets grace Mr. Worthington the Second with our presence and then go wander around the silent auction.”
Kitty bounced a little, careful to not wobble on her needle-thin heels. “I’ve always wanted to see a silent auction!”
Warren laughed, leading her through the crowd.
His father greeted them warmly, taking his son’s hand and introducing him to several politicians in the immediate area. Kitty smiled, flushed, when he kissed her hand.
“Why, Warren, you shouldn’t shock this old man,” he admonished teasingly. “A beauty like this shouldn’t be sprung on a man like that.”
Kitty felt her cheeks heat, but Warren only chuckled. “She sneaks up on you, Dad.”
“Katherine, is it?” The elder Worthington questioned, smiling benevolently.
“Kitty,” she corrected. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Warren talks about you all the time.”
“I must say the same, Warren speaks very highly of you.” He dropped his son a sly wink, which arched Kitty’s brow as she looked between them.
“Only believe about half of what he says,” she quipped with a saucy smirk. “He exaggerates sometimes.”
“Not by much,” Warren defended with a roguish smile.
There was tension here, she thought. The Worthington males were still at odds over a history neither could change. Frequent talks with Warren revealed that his father first learned of his son’s mutation the day Warren amputated his own wings. Startled by his son’s fear and sorrow, Worthington immediately began to develop a cure. Not because he hated his son’s condition, but because he thought Warren wanted a normal life.
Worthington seemed to understand now, for he gently stretched a hand and touched one pure white wing with tenderness. The feathers shivered with what Kitty could read as pleasure, the knowledge that his father loved and accepted him no matter the cost.
“Ah, Warren.”
Turning at the female voice, Kitty spotted the woman that could only be Warren’s mother. She was taller than Kitty by several inches, a slender frame tucked into an ebony dress that screamed cultured style. Her blonde hair cropped close to her face, curling delicately. Eyes of hard slate looked with interest to where Kitty stood beside Mr. Worthington as she kissed her son’s cheek.
Kitty could almost feel Warren tense. He called her distant, chilled during their private conversations. She might have helped him and his father come to terms with the mutation had she not been so concerned about what the country club would say. She, Warren told Kitty once, cared only for the lap of luxury. Kathryn Worthington married the name, not the man.
“Mother,” Warren said with a definite chill. Hearing this and her back rising in defense, Kitty took one step forward and protectively clasped Warren’s hand with hers. His fingers squeezed gently in thanks. “This is Katherine Pryde. She lives at Xavier’s as well. Kitty, this is my mother, Kathryn.”
“Interesting, we have the same name,” Kathryn smiled tightly. “It’s wonderful to meet you.”
“That is interesting and it’s a pleasure.” Kitty nodded; glad her hands were occupied to prevent a handshake. “Warren? Lets go browse the auction before dinner.”
“Of course, Kitty,” Warren shot her a look that spoke volumes. “Excuse us, Dad. Mother. We’ll see you at dinner.”
He led her away, Kitty grinding her teeth in an effort to control her sometimes-volatile temper. They eased through a door opposite the balcony, where long, linen-covered tables were covered with ledgers and items up for auction.
All proceeds would go to the Worthington Charity for Mutants in Need. Kitty kept her grip on Warren’s hand, glancing toward him when they looked over the items available for written bids.
“Sorry,” she muttered. “I have a hard time with tact and diplomacy.”
“It was great,” Warren chuckled softly, looking over a brochure advertising a trip for two to Prague. “Mom probably wanted you to say something stupid so she could shred you apart and deem you unworthy to everyone at a country club you don’t give a damn about.”
Kitty couldn’t help but giggle, eyeing a lovely painting donated by another wealthy family to the cause. “Now she’ll just say I was rude.”
“Rude? Nah.” Warren squeezed her hand again. “You were terse, but polite enough, though you seem to assume her only son is at your beck and call.”
“Aren’t you?” Kitty winked again. “I’m sorry you’re not closer.”
“At least they speak to me,” he replied with a heavy look.
“Hrmm. Point.” Not wanting her own parents to ruin the moment, she grabbed a pen and marked down a modest bid for the painting of Spanish Steps. “There did my part.”
“Do you want it?” He questioned, not looking up from whatever he was looking at beside her.
“You’re not buying me something,” Kitty countered, peeking at him. Did he have to be so handsome? So charming?
“Yes, dear.” He marked down his own bid, leading her through the rest of the auction until they’d sufficiently inspected everything.
She met scores of people, most of them won over by a winsome smile. Kitty filed every detail away for later, eager to tell Storm and Betsy and Marie all about it. Warren handed her a champagne flute with a ripe red cherry on the bottom, whispering that it was sparkling white grape juice for them both though they both turn twenty-one in just a few months.
They found place cards in front of the ballroom and Warren insisted on holding her chair out so she could sit. It was so easy to pretend this was somewhere she belonged, with the style and glamour. Warren’s easy charm made it so effortless to just melt into the prosperous crowd of his birth. She found herself wanting the night to never end, to be just a simple fairytale without the Disney addition of talking animals.
“Oh, my stars and garters.”
At the familiar phrase, both Kitty and Warren turned sharply. Beast, looking handsome in a deep black suit that offset his indigo fur pulled a beautiful raven-haired woman over to their table. Both younger mutants stood, embracing the man that fought beside them at Alkali Lake.
“What are you doing here?” Kitty asked, kissing his furry cheek.
“Ambassadorial responsibilities being what they are, I was invited,” he replied jovially. “Ah, this gorgeous woman beside me is Patricia Tilby. Patricia, meet Warren Worthington the Third and his companion Katherine Pryde.”
“Its wonderful to meet you,” said the slim, dark-haired Patricia with a warm smile. “Hank talks about you guys, all of the students, constantly.”
“That’s a little frightening,” Warren wisecracked with grin. “Whatever he’s told you, I didn’t do it.”
The group laughed, Hank and Patricia taking their seats with Warren and Kitty. Enjoying the adult conversation that immediately erupted, she sat back to enjoy her sparkling-cherry-tinted grape juice.
“Your father’s organization is working closely with the United Nations.” Hank explained as Patricia clasped his hand intimately. “I must say, I’m quite impressed with the level of thought he has put into this program.”
“It’s his baby,” Warren agreed easily. “At first I thought he was trying to cover up his mistake with the Cure, but he’s really committed to making it work. They’ll be breaking ground for the first new shelter next month.”
Because she knew little of this organization, Kitty listened intently.
“He is raising scores of money,” McCoy went on. “The cause is just and I do believe he has even begun a donation program to the school.”
Warren shot Kitty a look, which she arched her brows at. He flushed. “He asked me if there was some place I wanted him to donate to. Only place I could think of was Xavier’s School.”
“I’m sure Ororo appreciates it,” Patricia chimed in.
“I know she does,” Kitty added, smiling at both men.
“Of course, there are downsides,” Hank lowered his voice considerably. “Has he explained?”
“Somewhat,” Warren sighed. “These Friends of Humanity are the largest concern.”
“Patricia is working on a story about that fanatical group,” Hank replied with no short amount of pride. Kitty noticed the woman flush ever so slightly.
“Are you?” Warren asked, leaning closer. “In Depth, right? I thought I recognized you.”
“After that report I did on the fallout from the Cure, I was hoping you wouldn’t,” Patricia retorted good-naturedly.
Warren laughed. “It was a good story and I couldn’t find any misrepresentation aside from Dad being anti-mutant.”
“And you retracted it,” Kitty added, recalling the story.
“That I did,” she seemed pleased they knew her. “I’m hoping I can get lucky on this Friends of Humanity report. They’ve done everything but bomb your father’s offices or fire a bullet.”
“I fear it won’t be long off,” Kitty’s companion stated, prompting her to grasp his free hand under the table.
Almost unconsciously, she glanced about to locate Warren’s father. He spoke seriously with several important-looking people just across the room, near the far balcony. Why had Warren not told her someone threatened his father? Did he not want to worry her? Or was it none of her business?
When her gaze swung back to the table, she met Warren’s kind blue eyes, noticing there was apology written there. Arrested by the vivid blue and the warmth of his fingertips, Kitty’s breath caught in her chest. Betsy was right, he was so gorgeous. Why hadn’t she noticed before? Did Pete really cloud her vision so much?
Pete. Why hadn’t she so much as thought about the guy she was crazy about in the last several hours? She’d been consumed with Warren, swept off her feet. A girl could get used to that in a big, bad way.
“Kitty?”
Startled, the moment slipping by, she blinked and turned to Hank. Alerted by his suddenly rigid posture, she glanced around as though searching for trouble.
“Dr. McCoy?”
“Can you contact the mansion?” His question was a whisper; one that sent violent chills up Kitty’s spine.
She absently touched the metallic implant at the nape of her neck. “Of course. Why?”
Hank’s eyes met hers, then shot to Warren and Trish, both of whom looked alarmed. He took Patricia’s free hand, tugging her closer as he tilted his head, listening to something only audible to his preternatural ears.
“Contact Ororo. Now.”
Kitty did not have the will power to ignore the sharp command. She flicked the implant, sending a silent signal for help back to the X-Men. Warren stood, motioning calmly for his father, as though unwilling to panic the two hundred people crammed into the ballroom. Kitty did not release his hand, wondering what on earth…
The explosion rocked the building, sending Kitty sprawling on the floor. Her hand slipped form Warren’s as voices screamed and dust choked the air. Confused and dazed, she was unable to phase before her head struck the floor, making ears ring with the impact.
She tried to sit up, her vision swimming. People were running, some having fallen as she did.
“W-Warren?”
Blackness overwhelmed her, even through the fear gripping her heart.
