Chapter Eight: Strange Bedfellows
Like anyone would be
I am flattered by your fascination with me
Like any hot blooded woman
I have simply wanted an object to crave
But you you're not allowed
You're uninvited
An unfortunate sight
~Alanis Morissette
Before dawn, while the world rolled sleepily to avoid truly waking, Ororo slipped out of her bedroom. She checked on Jimmy and Artie, whom had the terrible habit of staying up too late to chat in the darkness. Storm enjoyed watching the boys’ relationship blossom. Part of her knew it was the similarity that warmed her so. The friendship grew much as hers had with Henry so long ago.
Storm had canceled her trip to Washington in light of the anti-mutant terrorist attack, telling the council that she needed to be with her charges. To her delight, they understood completely, rescheduling at her convenience. Ororo thanked her lucky stars that Charles’ good name offered some leeway, even from the grave.
Dreams kept her from the peaceful realm of sleep. She’d been standing on a dark corner, looking into the inky blackness of midnight. The dark closed in, leaving her alone to the fear and pain. To her surprise, the name she called into the terrible shadows was not that of her long dead friends, but for the impetuous Wolverine.
“Logan?” She cried into that dream world, fear in full force. “Logan? Where are you?”
Something made her run, though she could not remember what sent her to tear through the darkness. She kept calling for him, wanting some hand to reach out, to pluck her from the fear and pitch-black. In echoes of night, she heard the ceiling of that decimated ballroom fall around her, the debris nearly collapsing on her weakened body.
When she woke, it was with sweat-slicked skin and gasping breath. She needed to check on him, to ensure that he had not left her alone as the others. It was a ridiculous impulse, one neither of them would appreciate. He might embarrass her, but Ororo had to be certain that her sole companion upon these grounds had not slipped away in the night.
As she took the stairs one floor down to Logan’s room, Ororo conceded that might have been her problem all along. She always feared that one morning she might wake to find Logan slipped away from the mansion on Scott’s old motorcycle. If he left her as well, she did not believe her sanity would survive. Though she and Logan kept their distance, he reminded her every day of why Charles insisted they keep on fighting.
She watched, with some kind of wonder, as Wolverine became less the loner and more an integral part of the X-Men. The children depended on him, not only for education and instinctual wisdom, but protection. How many times had she heard the children recount stories of how Wolverine defended their home and, perhaps, saved their lives?
Storm tried to shake this from her head as she placed her hand on the doorknob to Logan’s bedroom. Two deep breaths did nothing to steady her rapid heartbeat, so she moved to turn it without another delay.
“Come on in, ‘Ro.”
Ororo startled so badly, she had to flatten her palm against the cool wood to keep from banging her body into it. She chuckled soundlessly, though she managed to open the door without stumbling or further making an ass out of herself. Smoothing her hair down with one hand, she poked her head into the room, smiling slightly.
Logan stood at his window, as she’d seen him do a million times. His chest happened to be bare, the clasp of his blue jeans undone, though he thankfully zipped them. To her surprise, there was no cigar pinched between his teeth. He braced one forearm above his head on the edging of the window, staring into the pink stain of dawn. His hair, Ororo noticed with some concern, seemed flat, much like a wounded wolf’s ears.
He said nothing when she stepped fully inside and closed the bedroom door behind her. In the dim light of morning, Ororo found faint traces of bruising and healing lacerations on his back and arms. Though his flesh was pale, the thick covering of dark hair seemed to blend him into the shadows. Light cast his profile in sharp relief, so Ororo could clearly see the contemplation on his wise features.
“You ok?”
At his question, she nodded. “Yes.”
A long, deliberating pause followed, broken only by the faint song of birds outside of his open window.
“Had a bad dream.”
It took Storm a moment to realize he had not questioned her, but spoke of himself in a simple, to the point statement. She took another step toward him, keeping several feet of empty air between them. He never took his eyes from the view beyond the thin screening.
“It was you under that ceiling. But I wasn’t fast enough to pull you out.”
Startled by the revelation, Ororo wondered if she had not yet woken and, in fact, lay on her bed still wrapped in strange dreams.
“You were afraid,” he continued quietly. “You were actually afraid for me.”
“Of course I was,” she whispered in reply. “The damn ceiling collapsed.”
His jaw tightened, but for some reason, Ororo knew it was not with his characteristic anger.
“You were actually afraid for me,” he continued as though still stunned by that knowledge. “I can’t remember anyone bein’ that scared I might die.”
Without knowing where the impulse came from, she closed the distance between them. Standing behind Wolverine, she could smell the spicy fragrance of his soap from a recent shower. Her hand reached without her permission, touching his bare shoulder. He flinched under the simple, comforting touch, the ripple of muscle an instinctual reaction rather than revulsion.
His head dropped forward, the stance changing for the first time since she entered his bedroom.
“I don’t ever wanna see that fear in your eyes again.”
Ororo smiled slightly, amused by his command. “Well, then. Don’t let ceilings collapse on you again.”
To her eternal surprise “ and pleasure “ she caught the faint hint of a smile on Logan’s lips before he shifted and turned. They faced one another in the dim light, shadows playing over them as the sun chased away the night. His handsome face had healed completely, most of those wounds superficial.
Her eyes traced the fading lines of his injuries, traveling down the length of his neck to that broad chest. There were angry bruises there, where the falling stone slammed Kevlar-based armor into his flesh. Impact bruises took some time to heal, even for a man bordering on immortality.
She touched one long gash over a pectoral, wondering how deeply that actually went. Logan flinched, reaching up to grasp her hand as though in pain. Ororo felt fear lick at her heart and both hands shot out to steady him.
“Are you all right? Should I get a med-kit? What’s wrong? Is it not healing?”
Her rapid-fire questions were slightly hysterical, the same panic kicking to life inside her chest as visions of that deadly collapse rushed back through her mind. Logan took her hands, forcing her to look up at his face.
He smiled at her, slightly amused, slightly grateful. “Come on, darlin’. I’m the motherfuckin’ Wolverine. It’s healed. Just a mite tender is all.”
Ororo gifted him with another smile, noticing how his thumb rubbed circles over her knuckles in a comforting way. Two sets of dark eyes caught and held in the lightening room, each guarded and open in their own odd ways. Ororo thought she might actually be seeing Logan for the first time since his arrival some time ago.
There was something so wise in those dark amber eyes, she decided. An ancient wisdom coupled with an innocence that served as balance. His hands were deceptively smooth, the pad of his thumb tracing the ripple of her knuckles absently. Unable to help herself, Ororo lifted her free hand to run her own over the stubble on his cheek.
Without realizing what they were doing, lost in the memory of that dream and the dawn light slipping in around them, Ororo drifted closer. He matched her for each motion, leaning down until their lips brushed softly. Logan’s eyes were still on hers, even when both of his hands came up to frame her face.
Oh, she felt tiny and protected when he looked at her that way. She had no conception of what in hell she was doing, but thought seemed slightly beyond her reach at this point. When Logan leaned further forward, like some Austen hero, her eyes drifted closed. Logan’s mouth took hers, but in a way she could never imagine him being.
Tender, she thought before she lost the ability. His lips were soft on hers, requesting response rather than demanding it. She felt her arms wrap around his neck, his own circling her waist. Goddess, he was so strong, so male. She lost herself in the romance and dream-like quality of the moment. When his tongue asked politely for entrance, she parted her lips obediently. He never seemed impatient by the slow, coy movement of their mouths. His hand drifted up from her waist to bury in the longer locks of her hair.
Ororo might have swooned like a nineteenth-century heroine, for her knees buckled under the sudden rush of blood and heady pleasure throughout her body. Logan caught her easily, gently pulled her against his chest for balance.
He lifted his mouth from hers gently, and though she felt his gaze on her, Ororo kept her eyes closed. The urge to whisper his name came without warning.
“Scott.”
For a moment, the sudden tension in his body made no sense. Ororo opened her eyes, somewhat dazedly smiling. But the cold, bitter edge to Logan’s deep amber startled her with the efficiency of a bucket of ice water. His hands slipped to her biceps, squeezing somewhat harder than could be called strictly necessary.
“Logan.” She did not know what to say, what could assuage the pain of what she’d just done. He saved her from trying with a chill to his eyes, his voice that no weather goddess could hope to recreate in nature.
“You need to leave.”
He released her roughly, turning back to the window. As he took up his former, statue-like position, Ororo rushed from the bedroom. She slammed the heavy door behind her, letting her back lean on it for support.
Her breast heaved with rapid breathing, the knowledge that she’d just hurt Logan weighing in on an already battered heart. She had not even thought of Scott during that impulsive “ and wonderful “ kiss. What happened? Goddess, what the hell was she doing kissing Logan in the first place?
It might not have been planned, but speaking another’s name was wrong no matter what the reasons were.
She heard a low bang from downstairs and pushed off from the door. With her head craned to the side, she listened for footsteps. A familiar step, klunk told the Headmistress who had just entered the house a beat before his voice traveled upstairs.
“Storm? Enamorado?”
“Coming, Forge!” She called to sooth the fear in his voice.
Thoughts of Wolverine would just have to wait.
~**~
He stayed up half the night, just looking at her. When dawn erupted through her eastern-facing window, he could watch the play of light on those beautiful features. That long, sculpted nose tipped up at the end. He’d never noticed that before. Her cheeks were rosy with sleep; that supple mouth parted slightly with the deep, soothing breath of slumber.
She lay, blissfully nude, beside him where she’d drifted off in the early morning. Her hair, which came unpinned at some point, spilled on the pillow with the luster of a sable coat. One hand rested near her cheek, the other splayed over his chest.
Warren rarely slept on his side, but he’d been too grateful to hold her in his arms. His broken wing ached with the pull of gravity over the side of the bed, but the warmth emanating from her body kept him locked in place, unwilling to move for fear of breaking this magnificent spell.
Kitty sighed contently in her sleep, rolling slightly as sleep released its beautiful hold on her. Unable to resist, Warren traced a finger over her cheek, leaning forward to kiss the bandage on her forehead. The fear still gripped him, wondering those awful moments if she’d been taken from him so violently. The dreams, he knew, would be with him forever.
“Mmm.”
At the sound of her comfortable hum he smiled softly. Those breathtaking eyes batted open a moment later, her smile at seeing him immediate and telling. She shifted beneath the soft lavender of her duvet. One hand reached up, running her forefinger over his lips. Undone by the simplicity of that touch, Warren’s eyes drifted shut. He shuddered with pleasure, wings twitching so that the rustle of feathers filled the previously silent room.
“Morning.”
Her voice, still husky with sleep, widened his smile. His eyes opened and he leaned in to kiss her. “Good morning.”
“Wow,” she rolled onto her back, stretching like a cat. “I haven’t sleep that hard in a long time.”
“Someone wore you out,” Warren quipped. Kitty swatted at him familiarly.
“That’s an understatement.” She winked at him, turning to glance at the clock. She groaned. “Damn, roll the clock back, War.”
He chuckled; rolling on top of her so that the sheet caught between them and his wings obscured the light. The sun filtered through the snowy hue of his feathers, casting Kitty’s face into pure luminescence. She reached up to touch those wings, her eyes shining with adoration.
“You’re so beautiful,” they whispered in unison before blushing at once.
Though he wanted to know what the last night meant to her, he could not bring himself to ask. If she started to think, remembered what Peter meant to her, Warren didn’t know if he could withstand the rejection. For right now, in this moment, he wanted her to be his. When the world came crashing down around them, at least he could have this single memory to take with him when his heart lay broken at her feet.
When it happened, he wasn’t sure. Warren knew, without a doubt, that he was in love with his best friend. He risked everything by giving in to the desire and hope in her eyes last night. She had the power to break him in ways his parents could never dream. If Kitty asked for the heart from his chest, he might cheerfully oblige. But he knew that her heart might still belong to their Russian teammate.
Part of him, that tiny piece of his soul that refused to be silenced, hoped that she saw him now as clearly as he saw her. The cynical side nurtured by years of pain demanded he simply close himself off and accept the inevitable.
“We have to get up,” Kitty pouted, taking him from internal monologue.
“Unfortunately,” he agreed. “Storm wants our reports on last night’s events.”
“What events?” Kitty blinked with a rather unconvincing impression of vapid ignorance. “I remember a red carpet, camera flashes, a pretty ballroom, and a dashing Prince Charming.”
“Ah,” Warren teased. “Cinderella didn’t turn back into a pumpkin?”
“Nope,” she leaned up, kissing him seriously. “Cinderella got her fairytale evening.”
He gave her an exaggerated look of suspicion. “You must have hit your head harder than I thought.”
Before Kitty could retaliate, someone pounded on her bedroom door. The young couple startled, Warren’s wing arching up painfully until they could see the solid oak door. There were shadowed feet beneath the wood, outlined by the hallway light.
“Yo! Kit-Kat!” Bobby hollered from the hall. “We got a briefing in ten and training right after. Hurry it up, sleepyhead!”
Kitty cleared her throat and feigned just waking. “Be right out, Bobby!”
“Kay.” A pause. “Hey, you seen War? He’s not in his room.”
Kitty giggled soundlessly, even when Warren shot her a warning look. “Think he went flying. Always clears his head.”
“Huh.” Bobby sounded unconvinced. “Maybe. I’ll see you downstairs.”
They waited until footsteps retreated before breaking into soft laughter. Kitty pouted prettily, wiggling beneath Warren’s light body until she could coil herself around him. Warren felt his heart double beat and prayed that this wouldn’t end as badly as he thought it would. Kitty peppered kisses on his neck and chest, her body waking his with open invitation for naughtiness.
“They’ll, ah, be looking for u-us.” Warren attempted to speak, even as blood lit fire in his veins.
“Not for a few minutes,” she whispered against his ear before nipping at the lobe. “We have time for a shower.”
He knew he should resist, get on with the inevitable “I want us to be friends” thing. But the greedy side of him wanted more, especially if all this would end the moment they walked out of her bedroom.
In the end, greed won.
“I’ll wash your back for you.”
Kitty grinned. “Oh, good. I was hoping you’d say that.”
~**~
They assembled in the War Room like knights at Arthur’s Court. Everything had that same Camelot feel, from the rounded metallic table to the somber, familial air of people bound together by loyalty and hardship. Storm sat at one end, leader though there could be no “head” of the table.
Surrounding her, the loyal knights that would charge into hell armed with naught more than courage at her command. Because she was a evenhanded ruler, they never had to. She would always fight at their sides, come what may. Warriors, he thought, warriors willfully submitting to the queen who won her stripes on a battlefield.
Forge always found a kind of regality to Ororo’s small court. In each youthful face, there was wisdom that time and trial impressed upon them. Whereas during Charles’ reign, they were children of innocence, still somehow sure there was goodness in every human heart to walk the planet. It was, Forge thought simply, the only true gift Charles could give them.
He held back his own pain at losing the man who helped so many. In Ororo, Forge knew, the legacy would continue. In Arthur’s time, only a son could retake the throne in his father’s name. Forge smiled slightly, believing that Charles might have forsaken young Scott Summers for this African princess. She commanded by love and fought with savagery that no man could ever hope to duplicate.
Though he wanted in no way to tarnish the memory of a man he once called friend, Forge truly believed that Storm was Charles’ rightful heir. She was unlike any other woman, a warrior princess set to take her people’s freedom by the tip of a sword. It came as no surprise that he adored and respected that woman so much.
If only he could love her as she deserved, become the king to her lovely queen. Alas, it was not to be, even at the height of war.
He scolded himself for allowing his thinking to slip so far into fantasy. No matter what he perceived, Ororo was a mutant schoolteacher, fighting tooth and nail to protect her charges. Her little kingdom left by a man taken too soon.
His analysis of Arthur’s Court seemed so true. All around the heavy steel table sat the X-Men, waiting to report and for decisions to come from the wintry crown. Shadowcat and Angel entered together, leaning toward one another as though in secretive counsel. Colossus and Psylocke came next, taking their places while locked in heated debate, which had nothing to do with this briefing.
Iceman and Rogue “ the latter still included as a kindred “ settled quietly at the table, leaving the whispers to the others. And finally, seeming to stroll in as carefree as a wild coyote, Wolverine took his place beside the unchallenged queen.
At once, Forge knew something changed between them. While the two often argued, they were normally quite cordial to one another, at least from what the others said. Today there was no typical ignoring, but a steady heat between them. Forge watched discreetly from his place at Storm’s right, to where Wolverine settled on her left. No glances slid toward one another, distance separating their bodies cold as a lifeless tundra.
Deciding he would get to the bottom of this, Forge turned his attention back to the meeting. Whatever passed between the Wolverine and Storm might boil over and scald the unprotected team. He remembered, quite suddenly, that internal strife destroyed the dazzling Camelot so swiftly.
“All right, settle down,” Ororo ordered with the commanding presence of a queen. “Warren? Why don’t you tell us what happened?”
At once, the young blonde, fairer than the creature that bore his codename, began the long explanation. His voice did not waver nor break as he recalled the events of the previous night. Forge’s sharp eyes caught the tiny, pale hand that grasped the young man’s under the table. He looked to Storm, whom met his eyes quickly, a confirmation that she noticed the change in her team as well.
For a reason not immediately apparent to Forge, her ebony gaze flickered to the stoic Colossus. The tall Russian gave his full attention to Angel, his face unguarded and friendly. Forge knew immediately that something in the shape of a triangle had been formed some time in the last several hours.
He thanked the gods that children were Storm’s responsibility and not his own.
When Angel finished his briefing, Storm turned to Forge.
“Forge?”
He nodded, cleared his throat, and felt a hot, angry gaze on his back. Ignoring Wolverine’s temper, Forge stood. Expertly tapping the keys on his command panel, he brought up security footage taken from the benefit.
“As you may already know, Warren Worthington had some concerns about security for the events last night. He contacted my office and asked that I keep an eye on things without disturbing the peace.”
“He didn’t want to alert those watching that he was concerned?” Angel offered, obviously knowing his father’s mind quite well.
“Yes,” Forge nodded to the younger man. “I was to keep my eyes and ears open, but not interfere. To be honest, I never expected an open attack on civilians.”
“Could there have been a specific target?” Storm questioned quickly.
“Actually, I believe there was.”
He hit another button, allowing the paused digital film to play. “This was taken in the Silent Auction room just before the explosion.”
The room was, thankfully, near empty. A few guests milled around inside, enjoying the extravagance of the evening. Forge and the X-Men watched in silence as a dark-haired woman entered the room. She wore a dress of bright cerulean, a sensual sway to her hips. Storm sat up, back straight as a board. Wolverine pulled the cigar from his mouth, staring openly.
“Mystique.”
Forge nodded to Wolverine. “Yes, we followed her the moment she appeared on our radar.”
Mystique moved easily into the room, glancing at the young couple wandering through the auction. She waited patiently as they circled the room, until their backs were facing her. She reached into her slender pocketbook, turned toward the door and pointed her hand toward the lavish ballroom.
“Hey!” The other woman shouted, whirling about as he hands charged with something like kinetic energy.
Mystique flinched, the object in her hand dropped immediately. She took her earring with a free hand, attached it to the pocketbook and let it fall. The explosion knocked the camera into snowy static and Forge stopped the tape.
“What was that?” Angel demanded with uncommon heat. “Who was she aiming that thing at?”
Forge tried to speak, but Angel continued his demands for answers until Ororo raised a delicate hand for silence.
Amused by the power she had over them “ without either party truly aware of it “ Forge took a deep breath, bracing himself to reveal bad news.
“Following the line of fire with our laser scopes on the scene, we determined that she was aiming at your table, Mr. Worthington.”
Kitty swallowed audibly, bringing Angel back into his chair while the others stared at him in shock.
“Me?”
Forge shook his head. “The doctors found two small projectiles inside Patricia Tilby’s abdomen. One seemed perfectly on point, but the other too high to cause any damage. When Ms. Darkholme startled, she missed her second shot.”
“The baby,” Storm whispered. “Oh, God. I hadn’t even thought about Trish’s baby. Are they all right?”
Forge nodded slowly. “For now, mother and child are just fine.” His eyebrow arched. “You knew?”
She had the grace to blush prettily, glancing around her knighted table to explain. “Henry told me two weeks ago. I was sworn to secrecy.”
“No wonder Dr. McCoy ran off like that,” Angel said miserably. “I didn’t even think about Ms. Tilby again.”
“Neither did I,” Kitty whispered, looking ashamed. “They’re all right, though?”
Touched by the swell of familial concern, Forge offered the worried X-Men a slight, tender smile. “Yes. Mystique’s projectiles missed the amniotic sac, but they want to keep her for several days to ensure the required surgeries did not harm the fetus.”
Wolverine stood immediately. “I’m goin’.”
Storm did not rise to stop him, but nodded once. “Send our best wishes to Henry and Patricia.”
Wolverine gave her a curt nod of his head, then swept from the room in a trail of cigar smoke. The others shifted uncomfortably, each struggling with his or her demons. Forge decided to continue the briefing without Wolverine, knowing someone would take the time to fill him in.
“We are not sure who Mystique is working for or why Tilby was targeted out of a veritable feast of marks.”
“Could she be working alone?” Colossus asked quietly.
“From what we know of her?” Psylocke left the insinuation hanging.
Forge agreed with her. “This was no accident. For now, we’re working with the FBI and the Federal Mutant Watch Group to find and detain her.”
“But she’s powerless,” Rogue interjected. “What’s she getting out of this?”
“Money.” Kitty offered.
But Storm shook her head. “Mystique is a fanatic, money is the least of her concerns.”
Angel glanced around the room. “There were rumors. My father never told me, but there are whispers that he developed an anti-cure.”
Storm stared at him in shock. “A way to undo the Cure?”
His blonde head nodded slowly. “My father may have wanted to offer mutants who took the Cure a way to reactivate their X gene.”
“Why?” Rogue demanded hotly. “Why would he do that?”
“To give back what someone took without permission.” Colossus decided. “For someone like Mystique.”
Forge felt foreboding slip through his veins like ice water. He met Storm’s gaze, marking the fear he found there, swirling just beneath the surface.
“This won’t end well,” she said quietly. “If she has the slightest chance at getting her powers back, Mystique will stop at nothing.”
Forge took his seat once more, absorbing this new information as quickly as he could. The X-Men might need help with this new enemy, one willing to destroy a ballroom filled with innocent people to serve her own agenda.
“I have to go to Washington,” he decided quickly, taking Ororo’s hand. “I may be able to find answers there.”
She nodded and called the meeting adjourned. When the children left the room, she turned to him, that infamous icy shield falling down to her feet.
“Forge…”
He took her into his arms, rubbing her back soothingly. “We’ll get answers. I promise.”
They remained that way for several moments; letting the fear take them and each wishing for the mentor they had relied on for so long.
