Chapter Sixteen: Choosing Sides
I don't wanna know it's over
Cause ignorance is bliss
I can hardly see
What's in front of me
Cause the vodka's running on empty
I can't stay sober
If it's over
~Hinder
Their bedroom still smelled of her. Her bathrobe hung on the bathroom door, her discarded nightgown on the edge of the carefully made bed. One set of windows was thrust open to allow the freezing air in. They were both more comfortable in the cold, thrived on it.
He stood in the center of their room, glancing from the nightgown and laundry she’d folded still sitting on the bed, waiting to be put away to the recently assembled furniture for their unborn child. His heart clenched so painfully he grunted with the force.
Never in what little of his life he could remember had his missed someone like this. During the few daylight hours that remained, Logan and Hank had called the lawyers to arms, readied themselves for the battle that waited in the distance. It wouldn’t be pretty or neat or even gentlemanly. Logan planned on fighting dirty. Plenty of ball-kicking and fish-hooking.
Taking another step into their bedroom, he scooped up his things from the bed. She always ensured his clothing smelled clean, with only hints of soap. He had mentioned once that overpowering soap threw off his sense of smell, which is why he preferred to wear a t-shirt once or twice, no matter how disgusting some thought of it.
Since then, Ororo was careful to ensure his laundry was relatively scent-free.
Woodenly, Logan put his clothing into the dresser drawers she had cleared out for him. He went back to the bed, taking her clothing and doing the same. He remembered peeking into her underwear drawer once several weeks ago. She had everything arranged by color, style and brand. He’d laughed.
Looking down into it now brought pain. Sharp and overwhelming, rage and sorrow warred with mind-numbing worry inside of him. Logan did not even attempt to stay upright. He fell onto his backside on the floor, thrusting both hands into his hair.
They had come so far. From his leaving every few weeks to something real and solid. Now, this bastard in Washington threatened to take everything away. He’d promised her “ sworn “ that he wouldn’t let them take her or the baby. They had both now, and Logan was left adrift and alone.
“Logan?”
Marie knocked on the open bedroom door, poking her head inside. Logan ignored her, content to wallow in his demons.
The Southern beauty padded into the room on bare feet, crouching beside him and quickly enveloping her friend in a warm, tight embrace. Logan gave in to her entreating arms, having always found her hugs comforting.
“You all right?” She asked in a hushed whisper, letting him hold her tightly.
“No.”
“Yeah,” Marie sighed. “Didn’t think so.”
“I have to get her back,” was his soft reply.
“We will, Logan,” Marie said with all the fire of a hopeful youngster.
He did not reply, but gave in when she urged him to place his head on her shoulder. Tiny shoulders, he thought, and yet so strong. He leaned against her, letting her carry some of his worry, if only for a little while.
~**~
In the sunroom several floors below, an enormous indigo mutant stood with enraged calm before his beautiful human lover. She met his gaze, unflinching, though he knew her sudden movement had to have hurt at least a little.
He watched as she collected herself, fingers gripping her cellular phone tightly. She prepared for battle as well as any X-Man; it did not matter if she fought with words or fists. Trish’s gray-blue eyes darkened with inner turmoil, his one statement still ringing through the still air. Her long dark hair lay over one shoulder, her free hand caught in the wavy locks at her forehead.
Coming upon the conversation had not been top on his list of things to do this evening. He had intended to put in a call to a Senator he had forged a close relationship with over the last several years, hoping to get more than one ball rolling in regards to Ororo’s sudden arrest. Hank needed to check on Logan before the man completely lost his mind.
There were children to look after, rounds to be made, a school to run…and Patricia was flirting with disaster.
“I know what I’m doing, Blue,” she said at last. “Someone has to be in the trenches here. I’ve got the loudest voice.”
“Yes, you do,” he shot back, not moving from his defensive stance in the doorway. “That voice nearly killed you.”
“At least his gunman was a lousy shot,” Trish said in an offhand manner.
“Do you think this is a game, Patricia?” Hank’s voice lowered to a dangerous growl.
How could she be so cavalier about her own life? Did she not realize how large she loomed in his world?
“You’re not looking at the bigger picture, Henry!” Trish fired back, balling both hands into fists as her left came down from her hair. “This isn’t just about Storm or the X-Men. It’s about all people, mutant and human alike!”
Hank crossed the room in two strides. Taking his love’s biceps in his massive hands, he hauled her up so she was within an inch of his face.
“You are not understanding me,” he said in a whisper that betrayed his turbulent emotions. “There is no ‘bigger picture’ without you.”
His words seemed to punch a hole in her defenses. Trish flinched, those expressive eyes speaking volumes. She cleared her throat, trying to maintain some sort of emotional distance. Hank refused to allow it. If she wanted to fight, to rush out with the first call to battle, she would do so knowing the full weight of her decision.
“I love you,” Hank said bluntly. “I love you as I have loved no other and yes, that includes Ororo. I spent hours in that hospital thinking I might never see you again. Do you have any conception of what that did to me?”
“Hank…” Trish whimpered. He ignored her.
“You want to help mutants, and that is an admirable goal.” He inhaled deeply, feeling the remnants of pain and fears roil in his stomach. “But you do so at the risk of your own life.”
“Is that any different than what you do?” Trish said evenly as she gathered her wits. “Or any of the X-Men? They tried to kill you, Henry. They tried to kill me, too. If we stop now, they’re going to win.”
He released her roughly, turning his back as she continued her tirade.
“They won’t stop until mutants are clapped in irons and branded. Magneto does have a point,” she hissed. “This will be the worst human rights atrocity since the Nazi Holocaust. We can’t let that happen.”
Thick blue fingers pinched the bridge of his nose, where a headache was steadily forming. He knew she was right, she usually was, but he resisted. It was selfish and childish and all manner of things Hank tended to avoid through logic and reason. But he could not escape the simple horror of watching someone put a bullet into the woman he loved.
Was it so bad to love like this? To want to protect someone against all odds, from all dangers? Hank had believed until this moment that his judgment was clouded when it came to his beloved reporter, but he faced the truth now. She had somehow become his world, wrapping his entire life around those delicate fingers.
“I know the risks, my dear,” he answered quietly. “I have known them all my life. I have marched into battle to protect those that hate and fear me. I did so gladly, knowing it was for some concept of greater good that surpassed any one creature.”
“Then why can’t you…”
“Because I’m a man,” he interrupted. “Not just a mutant, a fighter, an ambassador. I am as human as you are. My heart hurts at the thought of you in danger.”
Silence.
It stretched between them for several seconds before Patricia sighed.
“I’m not a princess,” she said somewhat acidly. “You can’t lock me in a tower while others battle the dragons at the gates. I need to be in the front lines, always have.”
“I know,” Hank swallowed thickly. Creeping dread came over his heart, a premonition of fate that he somehow knew he would be powerless to stop.
“You’ve always supported me,” she accused. “When I went into Rwanda, South Africa, Iran…you supported me. You gave me a hug, kissed my cheek and wished me luck. Why the hell can’t you do that now? Because we’re sleeping together?”
Her words lanced through Hank’s heart. He refused to turn as the first of what he feared would be many tears slipped silently down his furred cheeks. His voice, however, was completely steady.
“You were shot through the chest,” Hank answered. “And this does not concern you? They will silence you, my dear. The war you have declared on these people rages on.”
“I think,” Trish inhaled and exhaled shakily. “I think we should take a break here, Henry.”
There it was. Hank closed his eyes, having expected the simple, heartbreaking words for the last several minutes. His mind immediately flashed back to the day he’d pushed Ororo away, the resonating sound of the door slamming behind her.
“Trish,” he whispered, turning to her.
She stepped back, drawing up emotional around her like a knight’s impenetrable steel. There were unshed tears in his love’s blue eyes, the once dark depths now swirling silver with turmoil. He wanted to reach for her, to soothe both of their fears away until they were forgotten completely.
“No,” she shook her head. “We’re shifting our focus from the real issues. Our work has always been our life. We can’t just walk away from that now. You have to do what you do best and so do I. Maybe we just can’t do that together.”
“You are going to walk out on me.” It was a statement, the tears he refused to shed evident in every word.
“I don’t have a choice.” Her tone was filled with emotion, no matter how she tried to fight it.
“Your work over me,” Hank shook his head, taking a deep breath. “I never thought you that ambitious.”
Trish tilted her chin up in open defiance. “I am my work, Henry.”
Anger was better than the hurt. Hank pulled at it, letting it consume him until he shook from the awesome force. He wanted to hate her, scream, rage, do anything but feel his heart breaking in his chest.
“Then leave.” He whispered. “If that is what you want, leave me.”
She paused, her lips parting as though she wanted to say something. She stopped, shook her head and moved toward him. When she leaned up for a kiss, Hank turned his head. A tear slid down his cheek as she grabbed the car keys from the table by the sunroom arch.
He listened to her strong, unfaltering steps as they carried her out of the sunroom, down the hall and into the foyer.
The door slammed behind her.
With uncharacteristic anger, Hank grasped the glass-inlaid table of the sunroom and tossed it with an enraged scream. Ignoring the gasp that came from Betsy Braddock, Hank stomped from the sunroom, holding his hand up so she would not follow him.
He entered the Headmistress’ office, closing the door with a loud bang behind him. Ororo had changed quite a bit in the massive space, but she had left Charles’ beloved bar in tact. There were many times when the founder of the X-Men would offer his former students a drink on a quiet evening.
This time, however, Henry was in the market for something more than a simple drink with his mentor. He dove for the locked chest of the bar, opening the tiny lock with a key hidden beneath a shot glass.
The cherry wood of the handmade bar was inlaid with brass; the surface so clean Hank could see his reflection in it. Charles had stocked all manner of liquor and glasses on the sturdy shelves, so that the private watering hole would accommodate anyone.
Hank reached behind several bottles, locating one of expensive vodka. Piotr always brought back a bottle or two for the adults at the school when he returned from trips to Russia. Hank stood, bottle in hand, and took a clean glass from the wooden shelf.
He plopped into one of the squashy leather armchairs beside the bar, placing his vodka and glass on a small cherry table that rested between two chairs.
Trish had left him. Just like Ororo. Was he really so rigid that two women found him impossible to deal with? God, he didn’t want to think. He wanted the pain welling in his chest to just go away.
Pouring himself a drink, Hank bit back tears. He didn’t know if he could survive this a second time.
~**~
Up at dawn, Wolverine dressed quickly and quietly. There was no watching her dress this morning, no giddy feeling of her swelling abdomen. Only him, alone with hated sorrow and bitter rage. Sleep had not come easily, even when Marie tucked him into his bed, soothing him with soft, sweet words of reassurance.
Pulling his flannel shirt closed over his signature white tank, Logan left the bedroom at a near run. He couldn’t be in there right now, not with the memory of her arrest so fresh in his mind. He had to move, to do before he lost what little mind he retained in the face of this newest horror.
First came checking on the children, ensuring teachers were awake. Classes would go on as usual, something Logan was sure Ororo would want. Once he set Kitty and Pete to cooking breakfast for the teeming brood, he went to search for Marie. She knew, better than anyone, what was needed to get through each and every school day.
Logan pushed aside pain and anger, focusing on the task at hand. The children would need guidance, reassurance that the school itself was not in any danger. If Logan had to protect each and every brick, soul, and blade of fucking grass, he would. This was his home and more than that, it was Ororo’s dream. He would not let it fall while there was breath in his lungs.
Marie happened to be in her office, looking far too frazzled for seven in the morning. Haloed Warren was opposite her, thumbing through what looked to be stacks of paperwork while Marie’s hands tore at her long, striped hair.
“What’s wrong?” Logan demanded, stepping easily into the room.
“Nothin’,” Marie replied in a tone that spoke volumes.
“She is a little touchy this morning,” Warren piped up almost conversationally. “Thrown off her routine with Storm…gone.”
Though Logan appreciated the insight and attempt at politic reference to Ororo, the thought of her hurt. He pushed it aside as best he could, trying to concentrate on where they needed to go from here.
“I’m just…I’m fine,” Marie continued. “I can handle this.”
“What needs doin’?” Logan questioned quickly. “I’m here for ya.”
“No,” the Southerner shook her head. “You need to go take care of Mister Ambassador.”
Logan’s heart thudded in his chest. “What happened to Furball?”
“About three bottles of vodka,” Warren chimed in easily. “He’s in the main office.”
Turning on his heel, leaving stressed out Marie in Warren’s capable hands, Logan bolted for Ororo’s office. Vodka? Did Beast even drink? The most Logan had ever seen the man consume was a single glass of wine usually with dinner.
Redirecting Artie to the kitchen and confiscating what looked suspiciously like a snowball, Logan managed to get to the office some five minutes after leaving Marie’s. Things like that could take a while when surrounded by finicky, hormonal teenagers with uncontrolled mutant powers. Every day was an adventure, at least.
A quick sniff in the direction of the office door told him that Beast was, in fact, inside. The stench of sweat and liquor made him sneeze several times, his oversensitive nose disliking the mingled scents.
Logan slipped into the office, startled to find one enormous blue mutant completely passed out on the large Persian in the center of the room. Hank McCoy had one massive indigo hand wrapped around an empty bottle, his shirt hanging on a lamppost, suspenders twisted against his fur.
It had to be one of the funniest damn things Logan had ever seen. And the most disturbing. Several things in his life were unchangeable. Storm’s tenacity, Marie’s innocence, Beast’s level headed calm.
And yet, here was the Ambassador himself, snoring drunkenly in his mentor’s old office. It had to be some kind of record.
Logan stomped toward the enormous mutant, crouching beside him when the man did not even startle. Obviously the vodka had gone straight to his system. Jesus, what a mess. Where the hell was Trish when he actually needed her?
It dawned on him the moment he thought her name. Trish. What else but a woman could drive the calm, collected Beast headfirst into vodka? The good vodka even, Logan noted as he pried the empty bottle from Hank’s clawed hands. He’d managed to get into Piotr’s private stash.
Well, if you were going to get decently hammered, why not do it with the good stuff? Made sense in Logan’s mind.
He dwelled on thoughts of Trish. Had he seen her this morning? No. In fact, he’d thought it odd that Hank’s car was not in the driveway when he’d grabbed the morning paper. He had simply assumed that Hank and driven Trish back to New York or something. Then again, that made no sense. No way Hank would leave the school right now.
The answer was obvious. Liquored up Hank, missing car, woman gone. Trish had left Hank.
This was going to be a wonderful day, Logan mused as he pried one of Hank’s eyes open with rough fingers. The man groaned loudly, his breath smelling as though someone had stuffed a dead bird into it.
“Rise and shine, Valentine,” Logan drawled as the other eye opened slowly. “Have yourself a party last night? Without me? I’m wounded.”
“Do shut up, Wolverine,” Hank croaked.
Logan dropped his hand, resting his elbows on bent knees as Hank rolled onto his side painfully. Oh, Logan did not envy the hangover his friend was due to have. Downing a bottle of the good shit usually left one feeling somewhat delicate the next morning.
Of course, he couldn’t resist the urge to mess with his friend.
“That bottle cost Piotr a pretty penny,” Logan continued. “He’s gonna be pissed.”
“Oh God,” Hank groaned. “What did I do?”
Logan tilted his head, watching as Hank rubbed at his face as though it were on fire. “You lost it, Hank. Happens to everyone.”
Pain reflected in the soft blue of Beast’s eyes. Logan did not have to be a telepath to realize that memory had just come flooding back to him. Poor guy. He’d drunk enough to down an ox, but that healing factor of his made staying that way a challenge. Logan understood about that, he couldn’t remember how many bottles went to waste in his super-healing body after the deaths of his X-Men brethren.
“She left me,” Hank muttered. The pain in his voice twisted Logan’s already bruised heart.
“Figured that much out on my own,” the feral replied. “Why?”
Hank sniffled, trying to hide it by running his hands over his face again. Logan indulged him his subterfuge. Man Law demanded he ignore it.
“One more into the breach,” Hank quoted with something like bitterness in his voice. “She went back to Washington or New York or somewhere to cover Ororo’s arrest. Wasn’t that nice of her?”
It took Logan several seconds to puzzle that one out.
So, Trish had gone back to work. All right, he could understand that. She loved her work, was so good at it, someone had tried to kill her. Oh. Oh. Logan’s brain caught up quickly. Hank had gone male on her, giving in to that baser instinct to protect what was his, Trish rebelled against it.
He nodded to himself, considering his brain caught up.
“You’re scared,” Logan grunted, reaching out to clasp Hank’s shoulder.
“Terrified,” he admitted. Man Law dictated that never left this room.
“We’re all on edge here,” the mutant continued quietly. “I understand where you’re comin’ from, believe me. But I see her side, too. She wants to help.”
“At the risk of her own life,” Hank muttered miserably.
Logan sat on his backside as Hank drew himself up to sit against the squashy armchair behind him. They were quiet for several moments, Beast obviously sobering up as Logan draped his arms over his knees, cocking his head to the side so he could study his friend’s profile.
“I love her,” Hank said simply. “How can she not see that?”
“Dunno,” Logan stated slowly. “Maybe she does. Maybe that scares her.”
“Or, perhaps, I am not enough for her.”
That sentence hung on the air, heavy and filled with hidden meaning. The mutant men refused to look at one another, Hank studying the ceiling while Logan bored his gaze into the rug beneath them.
“I’m sorry about Trish, Hank,” Logan said at last. “But mopin’ an’ drinkin’ won’t bring her back to you.”
“I know.” Hank sighed, expelling a long breath shakily.
“Get up and take a shower, you smell like shit.”
His friend chuckled lightly. “Thank you, Logan.”
“Hey, anytime, bub.”
~**~
Ororo woke in a large “cell” that had been painted with cheap white paint some time ago. It was peeling in several places, the dank smell of her prison turning her pregnancy-sensitive stomach just a little.
She took the pillow from between her knees, where it had kept pressure off of her back and hips as she sat up. Her first night in prison had not been quite as bad as she expected. Several of the guards had invited her to join in their Spades game, pulling the table up to her barred door. The game had dragged into the late hours, but Ororo was shocked to realize she’d actually had fun.
It took her mind off of what she was doing here, off of the fears for her unborn child, her lover, her school. She’d promised the men a rematch. Maybe they were trying to distract her, but whatever the reason, she was glad for Goldstein’s men. They were good people.
“Morning, Miz Munroe,” a young Bostonian accent greeted as the key turned in the lock. She fought to sit up, clutching her stomach tightly.
“Good morning,” she replied, running a hand through her hair.
“Breakfast,” the man smiled, setting a tray down on the small table inside her cell. He handed her a bag as well, his easy grin setting her at ease, no matter what uniform he wore.
“What’s this?” She asked, unzipping the bag.
“Fresh clothes, one of your students packed it and sent it along. Our jumpers aren’t made for…erm…pregnant ladies.”
Ororo flashed him a small smile. “Thank you.”
“Once you eat, we’ll take you to shower.”
She nodded as he left. Her stomach rumbled, followed by a swift kidney shot from the child inside of her. Chuckling to herself, despite the challenging situation before her, she dug into her breakfast, which consisted of eggs, toast, a over-cooked bacon.
The guards took her to an open shower, where other prisoners were segregated from her. She was allowed little privacy, not that it bothered her. Just being able to shampoo her hair and don fresh clothing was a luxury.
Once back in her cell, Ororo walked to the wide, barred window. Her hair was wet, lying haphazardly at her shoulders. She wondered what her family was doing at the school. Had Logan continued to hold classes? Was he coping as well as he could while surrounded by the unshakable support system granted by extended family?
“Miz Munroe?” The voice came again and with it the key turning in the lock. “You’ve got…a visitor.”
Curious, Ororo turned from the window as the heavy steel door opened. Smoothing her maternity blouse over her belly, Ororo waited impassively as the dark form of Bolivar Trask entered her cell.
The victorious gleam in his eye made her want to flinch, but she held her ground. He would not know how much his manic smile unnerved her. Ororo forced her hands to remain at her sides, not willing to protectively cover her pregnant stomach. She would be strong, for her child.
“Miss Munroe.”
“Secretary Trask.”
His slimy smirk was somewhat diminished by the guard standing at the door. The Bostonian was obviously not going to throw her to the wolves. There was comfort and reassurance of the innate good in human beings at that gesture. Charles would have been elated by the strength she gained from that one, simple sign.
“You are being treated well, I hope?” Trask questioned, clasping his hands behind his back.
This was the first time Ororo had seen the man up close. He was impressive. His stature bordered on giant, dark eyes filled with conviction and madness. His tailored suit fit him perfectly, the excellent cuts flattering what could have been a trim figure had it completely covered the slight pooch in his midsection.
He remained a polite distance away, his hands clasped behind his back. Ororo brought her hands together, threading her fingers neatly below her swelling stomach. Charles had taught her every rule about high society, ensuring she was comfortable on the streets, in the wilds of Africa, and the most stately of ballrooms.
“Quite,” she replied with a smile.
“I assure you, the trial will be processed with haste,” Trask went on.
“Of course it will,” Ororo said blandly. “Once the press gets hold of this, your superiors will be on your back to resolve it.”
She had the distinct pleasure of seeing the thick vein in Trask’s dark forehead jump slightly before he controlled himself.
Zealots were quite fun to poke at, though she would never admit to that aloud.
His tone was even, controlled when he spoke again. “Do you require medical attention for the fetus?”
“No,” she said calmly and with a forced smile. This bastard would come no where near her unborn child. “The baby and I were checked just last week. Everything is as it should be.”
“Of course,” he bowed slightly. “Should you require…”
“I will call on my own doctor,” she interrupted. “Which is well within my rights.”
“Of course,” he repeated. Ororo wondered if he honestly thought she would submit to any medical testing. Had he never heard of Wolverine? She would not allow anyone that could remotely be tied to the organization that harmed her beloved Logan near their child.
“Was there anything else?”
“No, not at all. I merely wanted to check in on you.”
“Well, as you can see, I am perfectly fine.” Her voice dropped to a sinister growl. “Now get out of my sight you putrid, spineless fraction of a man.”
With distinct pleasure, she watched his eyes widen, his pulse point jump erratically.
“Watch yourself, mutant,” he replied in a deathly quiet tone. “You are under my mercy now.”
Storm cocked her head to the side, smirking with sarcasm. “Am I? Have you not met my friends? You, Secretary Trask, are damned.”
They stared at one another, eyes locked in a battle of wills that should have shaken the heavens with massive, violent thunder. But Ororo controlled her mutant carefully, drawing on the inner peace her pregnancy gifted her with. The child inside of her was calming, giving her an easy control factor for her emotions.
He had tried to crack her, but Ororo would not give in. No matter how she wanted to rage, defend herself, exact vengeance, she would refrain.
Now, Trask knew that.
“Coming out!” He called to the guard before addressing her again. “Enjoy what time you have with the child. I intend to make sure it is limited.”
“You do not frighten me, Mister Secretary,” she tossed off easily. “I have faced far worse.”
“We shall see,” he bowed again as the door opened.
Once he was gone, Ororo exhaled slowly, grabbing the bedrail and stumbling to sit. She covered her swollen tummy with both hands, taking several deep breaths. Oh, how she had lied. That man terrified her.
She lay back down, feeling her baby press at the inside of her stomach gently. It was going to be a long day.
