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Author's Chapter Notes:
This is slow going. I can’t enough momentum when I update this to keep going with it, even though I have the basic outline mapped out pretty well in my head. Dedicated to Layde, Rhaps, and Tiger, all of whom rock out loud for being my sounding board for this story, and who are just as busy as I am.
Summary: Ororo’s maiden flight on the runway gets rocky when she meets her new rival.

“Shit,” Ororo hissed in alarm.

“What?”

“My zipper’s broken,” she insisted. “Piotr, it’s not working!” Panic choked her and she felt herself breaking out in cold sweat and goosebumps. Piotr’s hand at her lower back was meant to calm her, and she appreciated the warmth of his skin as it seemed to pulse into her through the thin, flimsy fabric of the outfit that currently refused to cooperate. She was getting a wicked draft…

He gently tugged her hand away from the zipper she was manhandling into submission. “It’s not broken,” he corrected her, “but quit yanking on it, Ororo. Look, you caught it on a thread. It frayed a little and got caught in the track.” She heard him grunt under his breath, then felt some of the cool air disappear from her back as he zipped the bodice closed. “Nice and neat, no thanks to a certain model and her habit of mangling my creations.”

“Sure, blame me and my ten thumbs,” Ororo muttered. Piotr, to his credit, was sober-faced, but his blue eyes held humor at her expense. He swatted her hip.

“Stand up straight, let me fix this.” She squared her shoulders while he slid the jacket up her arms. Ororo fought the urge to sneeze as the feathers tickled her lips.

“Couldn’t you come up with a collection of blue jeans for a change?” she teased.

“Don’t let the door hit you on the ass on the way out,” he warned around a mouthful of pins as he fixed the sleeve’s cuff and tacked down a loose button. Ororo was impressed he could focus on such a small detail with all the chaos erupting around them. Backstage, the large dressing room was like Grand Central, deafening with bellows for makeup and accessories, models tripping over each other as they pulled their ensembles from racks and left empty hangers still swinging. The air was thick with fogs of hairspray and the cloying scent of moisturizer and makeup. Despite her skimpy dress and the insignificant little jacket, Ororo was suffering from the stuffiness in the room from too many bodies and the hot, bright lights from the stylist’s mirrors hanging over the wide row of vanities. It was growing hard to breathe, but Piotr’s forehead had that little divot in the center and the vein in his temple was sticking out in an ominous fashion. It wasn’t a good idea to complain.

One of Piotr’s other finds was doing enough of that for everyone in the room. Ororo silently rolled her eyes at a high-pitched screech from her left. “I don’t want green eyes! I hate myself like that!”

“It’s not up to you,” her stylist reminded her nastily. “Hold still, Kitty.”

“No,” she pouted, folding her arms and jerking back from his small brush. “Get that crap away from me.”

“Look, do you wanna tell Piotr you won’t wear green eyes in his show, after he was nice enough to book you?”

“Excuse me, but my agent was the one who booked me in this show,” Kitty snapped. She didn’t look ready to budge. Her stylist threw down the brush and got up, shoving back his chair so roughly it bounced off his standing easel, knocking it onto the floor.

“I’ve fucking had it. Someone else deal with Barely Legal over here!” Ororo tried not to laugh as Kitty sat mimicking him with her expressions, making talking hand gestures behind him. She stopped and glared back at him just as he turned around to stare at her. “What’d you just do? Are you making fun of me?”

“Who’s making fun of you?”

“You are! You’re making fun…she’s making fun of ME??!” He looked around at the room at large and threw up his hands. “Look, I’ve had enough of this shit! I’ve put up with your MOUTH and your ego all day! I won’t put up with you making a fool of me to boot!”

“You’re doing a great job of that yourself,” she shrugged innocently. She even threw in a little clap. “Bravo.” The stylist was about fifty, graying, slightly paunchy despite careful dressing to camouflage it, and his skin was the florid red of someone who struggled with hypertension. His jaw worked and his fingers twitched for an inkling.

His palm struck her cheek with a loud crack. Kitty reeled back, looking stunned; her large brown eyes were huge, even devoid of makeup, but now, they were glistening.

“Fuck,” Ororo muttered under her breath. One side of her wanted to be amused, since Pryde was a spoiled brat, but shock won out. Ororo was appalled and watched Kitty’s lip tremble slightly, but she straightened up.

“You hit like a girl,” she spat. His eyes bulged, and he looked ready to jump over the fallen easel to throttle her, but Piotr clapped one beefy hand over his shoulder.

“Out. Go. No one lays a hand on any of my models,” he snapped. “You should know better, you’re a grown man.”

“But…look, she pushed me too far! She’s a spoiled little brat, she’s the worst kid I’ve ever worked with, and I’ve been in this fucking business for twenty years!”

“Then act like it. Out. Now.”

“But…!”

“Don’t make me have you thrown out. Get your crap. Leave with dignity.” Piotr nodded to his easel and satchel and gave him a slight shove. Kitty opened her mouth to add her two cents, but Piotr made a silencing motion. “Zip it, Pryde.”

“I was…”

“Uh-uh. Not a word.”

Once the stylist was gone, the temporary hush that had fallen over the dressing suite returned to its former clamor.

“My mom’ll have him sued,” Kitty grumbled as a young cosmetology intern named Anna began daubing white cream beneath her eyes, which were now slightly puffy.

“Tip yer head back, shoog, while I give ya some of these drops. Fix ya right up in a jiff.”

“I can have him put away for assault and battery,” she bragged, nonplussed by the fact that she had likely gotten a man fired.

“Over eye shadow,” Ororo tsked aloud, shaking her head. Kitty swiveled her head around, eyeing Ororo up and down.

“Excuse me?”

“All that drama over a little eye shadow,” Ororo repeated.

“I know how to look good! I’ve been doing this since I was five! I was a Gerber baby, for cripes’ sake! Last year, I did a Access Dental billboard!”

“Goody for you,” Ororo told her, giving her a few polite claps. “That man was doing his job. You were playing around with him on a night where no one in here has time to cater to your every whim.”

“What do you know? I mean, you’re nobody,” Kitty crowed, raking her eyes over her and smiling nastily, making her look older and more harsh. “No one here’s even heard of you.” Ororo shrugged, nonplussed.

“If all goes well, they will after tonight,” Piotr told her sharply. “Listen up, Katya. Enough. I told that stylist what I wanted for your look. I picked out the outfit for you, knowing that I needed a petite girl with your kind of dark looks to set it off. The look is glam, so the green eye is almost a prerequisite.”

“It’ll look like shit.”

“If you feel that way, there’s the door,” Piotr challenged, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. “You don’t get to sit here and insult me in my own house.” She folded her arms and had a hard time holding his gaze. Anna backed off from putting on Kitty’s concealer when Piotr leaned in close enough to her that Kitty could see his pores and count the specks of stubble along his jaw. “Do you think I’d send you out there looking like shit?” She squirmed uncomfortably in her seat.

“No,” she said quietly.

“No. Huh. Good. Thanks for the vote of confidence. And guess what? You’re selling my clothing for me. You have to make my designs look fantastic with the way you present yourself. Not the other way around. Watch your mouth, and work on that attitude. If you want to act like a primadonna, do it on someone else’s runway, in someone else’s clothes.” He backed off slightly. “Understand?”

“Yes,” Kitty said in a small voice. She dashed the edge of her thumb beneath her lower lashes.

“Good. Finish getting ready.” Piotr turned on his heel and went to check on the lighting onstage.

“Harsh,” Anna Marie muttered. “Lemme give ya a little concealer, sugah.”

“What was that white crap you put on me a minute ago?”

“Preparation H. Makes the swelling go down.”

“Omigod! That’s so gross!”

“Hey, it works, don’t it? Quit yer yappin’, kid, and hold still!”

Ororo sat back and let her stylist work on her hair, bumping it with a curling iron and teasing it mercilessly. She hardly recognized herself with the extravagant makeup as it was as her now smoky eyes stared back at her. Remy forced her back onto her Spartan diet and training regimen, and it paid off brilliantly, since all of Piotr’s clothing fit her like a glove.

But she was ready to kill someone for a Snicker’s bar. Violently.

“Quit frownin’, petit. It makes wrinkles,” Remy drawled as he swam into Ororo’s line of vision. His reflection hovered over hers, and she offered him a shaky smile.

“I’m nervous as hell.”

“Don’ be. Worked hard enough fo’ it, padnat.” The nickname was one of the few she liked, once Remy explained it was French for “partner.” “M’gonna be down in front.”

“Remy! Don’t! You’ll make me mess up!”

“Don’ focus on me. Focus on you,” he shrugged.

“Easy for you to say,” she sulked, staring down at her nails. The white-on-black French tips stared back up at her but held no answers to her fears.

He leaned down and nudged her cheek with his jaw. His voice and warm breath feathered over her ear, making her shiver. “Dis is your night, chere. Get out dere an’ show ‘em who’s house it is. Make ev’ry camera out dere train itself on you. Show ev’ry woman in here how it’s done.” His cologne was slightly metallic and crisp, a perfect complement to his black silk shirt and jacket. His familiar, drawling baritone was comforting and gave her strength that she sorely needed.

“They all know how, I’m the rookie in here. Even Pryde makes me look like an amateur.”

“Bullshit. She keeps pullin’ dat nonsense, an’ no one’ll wanna work wit’ her anymore. Her career’ll be over by de time she’s eighteen if she ain’ careful.”

“I’m already too old, then.” His dark eyes met hers in the mirror, and his gaze burned her.

“Dat’s bullshit, too.” He edged himself between Ororo and the vanity, leaning back against it and bending over her. His fingers captured her chin and lifted it so that she couldn’t look away from his eyes, but she stared at his lips as he spoke. “Dere ain’ anyt’in’ you can’t do, chere. Only gonna fail if you don’ try. Remy b’lieves in ya. Never backed a loser in my life. Know ya got it in ya t’make it, chere.” Her heartbeat sped up as his fingertip traced her jawline so gently that it could hardly be called a caress, but it still made her tingle.

She was impossibly beautiful, but the old Ororo still lingered beneath the gloss, vulnerable and unsure of herself. “Get out dere an’ kill it. You nail dis show, an’ Remy’s gonna take ya out fo’ a steak dinner. If ya stumble, den it’s salad city, chere.” She snorted. “I ain’ kiddin’. Better yet, chere, I’ll sweeten it. I’ll throw in a surprise if dis show gets any of the agencies comin’ tonight t’sign you.”

“That’ll be the day.”

“Den I guess we’ll be eatin’ salad,” Remy shrugged. He brushed her temple fleetingly with his lips, and her stomach fluttered in response. “Lemme know when ya wanna apply down at Starbucks, chere.” With that, he left. Ororo fumed.

It wasn’t his lack of pity that made her shrivel. It was how badly she felt she needed it.

*

The opening bars of “Poker Face” blasted from the speakers onstage. The audience out front resembled an arena to Ororo as she glanced out past the curtains. “Shit,” she hissed under her breath.

“What’s wrong with you?” Kitty demanded. “You look sick.”

“I feel sick,” Ororo admitted.

“Baby,” Kitty insisted. “What’s the matter, is this your first show?”

“Piss off, kid,” Ororo said nastily, unsure of whether her claws were coming out from nervousness, annoyance, hunger, or some combination of the three. Kitty looked taken aback.

“I was just gonna ask if you wanted a mint,” she claimed, holding up a box of TicTacs, popping two of them into her own mouth. “They won’t let you have gum back here.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Kitty shook the pack, and Ororo gratefully held out her hand. “This hasn’t been a stellar day.”

“Tell me about it.” Ororo didn’t bother reminding Kitty she’d brought the slap on herself; she needed a friendly…well, somewhat friendly voice and face right about now to soothe her jitters. “My first show sucked. I fell. Tripped over a pair of five-inch heels when they snagged in my train. I sprained my ankle and couldn’t work for a month. It sucked.”

“Ouch.”

“That was one of Gallio’s shows. I hate working for her, anyway, she’s a bitch.” Ororo suppressed a smile.

“Does she book you a lot?”

“Every once in a while. She doesn’t always like petites.” Kitty sighed. “Sucks being short.”

“You’re cute.”

“Omigod, don’t call me that. I hate ‘cute.’ It’s the kiss of death.” Beneath the makeup, which Anna did a killer job of, Kitty Pryde was a vulnerable looking girl. “I’m already limited enough. When I was twelve, they told my mom once I was too ‘baby-faced.’ When I gain any weight, it ends up in my cheeks.” She cupped her hands near them in a gesture that suggested they were big and poofy, which was anything but the truth. Kitty had a lean, heart-shaped face with sharp bone structure and dimples when she smiled, which for the moment seemed rare. Kitty seemed the moody type…

“Oooh!” she gasped suddenly, flanking Ororo and whispering at her like a co-conspirator, “Look! I can’t believe she’s here!”

“Who?” Ororo peered around the edge of the stage and into the front row, following the path of Kitty’s manicured finger.

“Cal! She was supposed to be in the show tonight!” Ororo couldn’t stop staring at the striking, rail-thin woman with irregular features and choppy, short coif sitting beside Emma. Like half the other people attending the show, she wore black, making her skin cross the line between “fair” and “pale.” Ororo tried to place her, knowing she was familiar, especially with so many piercings and slanted blue eyes lined in needle-sharp kohl.

She was just…fierce. Everything in her demeanor screamed “Fuck off”, from her hard, bolt-upright posture to the faint sneer in her expression.

Ororo envied her.

“What else has she done?”

“Are you kidding? She’s a legend, where’ve you been?” Kitty leaned in closer than was polite as she filled her in, giving Ororo a sharp elbow. “Whatever you do, don’t cross that woman if you get stuck with her on a shoot. She’s mean.”

“What else is new?” Ororo muttered.

“She’s made photographers cry,” Kitty went on. “She was in a Mapplethorpe calendar once.”

“I love Mapplethorpe,” Ororo murmured, impressed.

“Callisto’s not even her real name,” Kitty sniffed. “One-name wonder, just like Tyra or Vendela.”

Or RuPaul. Or Bono. “She’s different.”

“That’s how you make it,” Kitty said simply. “She had a falling out with Cassandra Nova two years ago. Told her to fuck off and stomped out of her office, I heard.” Ororo wondered how guilty she should feel as she did nothing to discourage Kitty’s gossip. Them, for all she knew, Ororo would probably be her next subject five minutes later. She gave a mental shrug.

“Must be nice to have that much sway.”

“Are you kidding? I wish I were her.”

Ororo had no more time to contemplate the wisdom of that statement. She was rushed by one of Piotr’s assistants into line, and her stomach twisted itself into ten thousand knots. As the first two models paraded out, she saw a sudden burst of flickering lights and realized they were flashbulbs. It suddenly hit her that she could end up in print.

Holy shit. Her mouth tasted dry, then slightly bilious…

“Go.”

“What?”

“GO!” the assistant snapped, waving her out once the model before her in line was about five paces ahead.

“Shit,” Ororo yelped, smoothing her skirt with sweaty palms. This was it. Now or never.

Someone had the bright idea to set a fan off to the side of the stage. The high, flamboyant collar of feathers trimming Piotr’s blazer that he designed so lovingly came with the nuisance value of trying not to scratch her face. The refreshing, cool air rushed up at her, promptly blowing the itchy plumage across her lips. Ororo sputtered, trying to free errants bits of fluff from her lipstick. The overhead lights were blinding, underscored by the flickering bulbs as they popped, several at a time.

Ororo’s heart hammered as she made her way out. She tried to ignore the eyes pinning her at first, roving over her hungrily and with interest. She caught a few women’s pursed mouths “ooh’ing” at her outfit, or perhaps over her; she couldn’t tell, but it sent a shiver of excitement through her. She was getting noticed.

Her brain struggled with the effort to free her face from the annoying collar and to walk as Jean-Paul taught her. Strut, she corrected herself. She patted down the collar, trying to make it look intentional, and then Ororo literally put her best foot forward, cruising down the runway in long, fluid strides. She ignored the pinch of the snug little heels (medieval torture devices in a previous incarnation, she decided) and focused on the crowd. Her expression was collected and confident, even while she prayed that the feathers didn’t attack her again.

Her prayers were too little, too late…

“Shit,” she huffed, feeling the hitch in her abdomen as she tried to stifle a sneeze. Her hand remained resting on her hip, and it was time to take off the jacket as she walked to reveal the delicate little camisole underneath, which was proving easier said than done. She wanted to reach up to stall the sneeze, but not at the expense of taking off the jacket with a flourish, as Jean-Paul had instructed. She smiled, catching the eye of the photographers with the Vogue press badges to her left, and Ororo began to unbutton the jacket.

The sneeze, when it escaped, was sputtery, loud, and completely unladylike. Thankfully, the music was loud enough to drown her out “ somewhat “ and Ororo recovered enough to see that she was perilously close to the edge of the stage, correcting herself in time to pivot and fall back in line.

To her horror, a feather escaped the jacket, drifting in lazy arcs through the air. Ororo’s eyes widened briefly, but she tore her gaze away from it, remembering the jacket. She carefully unbuttoned the two small, black discs and slid it gracefully from her shoulders, slinging it gracefully over her shoulder. She maintained her calm mask, but she overheard titters from the front row and cringed. Ororo felt herself breaking out into flop sweat.

The fans hit her again as she headed toward the back of the stage, and once again, heaven laughed at her expense. She sneezed again and this time, felt a tiny pop. She pivoted when it was time, showing the audience the outfit once more before retreating offstage.

This time she knew the audience was amused about something. What was worse…why did she suddenly feel a draft?

She shrugged to herself again. Look at it this way: You didn’t have a heart attack.

She made it back behind the curtain, by turns relieved and annoyed with herself, wondering if it was safe to inhale yet.

Obviously not.

Selene was hurrying toward her, absolutely livid. “What. The hell. Is wrong. With you.” She yanked the jacket from Ororo’s grasp and practically strong-armed her behind a changing screen.

“What’d I do?”

“What. Did. You. Do.” Selene spun her to face her, gripped her jaw, and forced her to look down. Ororo’s nipple stared back up at her.

“Oh, crap.”

“’Oh, crap’ she says. How nice. Ororo’s decided to join the rest of us on planet Earth.” Ororo scrambled to fix the camisole and cover her now drafty breast.

“That…wasn’t supposed to happen,” Ororo said numbly, trying to meet Selene’s gaze without cringing. She failed miserably. Selene’s scowl was made more menacing by her jet black brows, waxed and tweezed into an angry arch.

“What on earth is wrong with you? What is it with you and clothes?”

“I had to sneeze. The fan was blowing on me.”

“She had to sneeze.” She grabbed Piotr, who had approached and stood on the other side of the screen like a gentleman while Ororo struggled to fix predicament. “She sneezed,” she repeated to him.

“I gathered that.”

“Twice,” Ororo added meekly. Her nose still itched; she fought the urge to rub it while she shrugged into a small silk changing robe. Off to the side, Ororo noticed Kitty returning from the catwalk, dissolving into giggles and pointing. She knew the brat had met her quota of being slapped silly for the night already, but what was wrong with a surplus? Ororo narrowed her blue eyes at her and made a chopping motion across her neck for Kitty to be quiet, resulting in a slender hand clapping itself over her mouth, merely stifling the sound. The brown eyes were full of amusement at Ororo’s expense, green shadow and all.

When Remy reached the dressing area again, he was out of breath and flushed, having cut his way through the thick crowd and harried stylists and models.

Ororo turned to face him before he even called out her name, feeling his presence, even craving it in the wake of her humiliation. Her façade faltered, weakening as she saw the sympathy in his dark eyes.

“I fucked up,” she said in a near whisper as he drew closer, shaking his head.

“Petit…”

“I completely fucked it up, didn’t I?”

“Yes,” Selene barked in the background as she fussed with the jacket, tacking down a few feathers that were trying to work their way loose from the collar. Her mouth was full of pins and she sewed furiously, as though she wished she were stabbing Ororo with her needle. Ororo schooled her face to be passive, but her eyes glistened as they filled.

“Non,” Remy said quickly as her posture crumpled. “Ororo…calm de fuck down.”

“I…can’t,” she insisted hoarsely, barely audible above the clamor in the room. He jerked her around by the shoulders and steered her to the vanity, forcing her to sit. His hands squeezed her shoulders firmly, keeping her grounded and warming her through the flimsy robe.

“Look at me, petit.” She shook her head, staring stubbornly at her hands clenched in her lap. “Dat’ll be enough of dat. Chere…c’mon, now. Ya got out dere an’ strutted, jus’ like ya were taught.”

“I made a fool out of myself,” she said haltingly, voice clipped when she could find it. Her chest felt constricted, and she breathed in short, harsh little huffs. Remy sighed, then rubbed her upper arm soothingly.

“Ya had a wardrobe malfunction,” he quipped blandly.

“Shit,” she tsked. “Of all the times that something like that had to happen…it just had to happen to me.”

“In front of dozens of cameras,” Selene muttered from the corner. Remy spat something in guttural, clipped French that made Selene’s mouth drop open, letting the pins fall from her lips onto the floor. “Go fuck yourself.”

“Fine wit’ me. Sure as hell wouldn’ fuck you,” Remy shrugged.

“Don’t flatter yourself!” she sneered, but her face was florid. Ororo suppressed a snort, but a hot, slick tear streaked down her cheek despite brief swipes beneath her lashes with the sash of her robe.

“C’mon, now,” Remy chided. He reached for a wad of cotton balls and tucked them into her hand. “Clean up.” He snapped his fingers at Anna, motioning for her to come over. “Touch her up. Get her ready t’head back out dere.”

“It’ll only take me a sec. Girl, it ain’t the end of the world, a’ight? It gotcha noticed.” She pulled out a small bottle of eye drops. “Tip yer head back, sugah.” Ororo hissed as the cold drops smarted as they hit her corneas, but they soothed away the hot itch of tears and cleared away the bloodshot haze, making her eyes look less glassy. “Gotta hit ya with some of this too,” Anna warned, yanking out the hemorrhoid cream again. Ororo hid a shudder as Anna continued to fix her up.

Ororo was strong-armed into another outfit, despite loud objections from Selene and her own misgivings. Yet another pair of stilettos pinched her toes. Remy stood off to the side, back turned to keep his promise to Ororo not to watch her, even after she wrangled with him to stay backstage to build up her resolve. He sighed, deciding not to question it.

The woman was driving him bonkers and batshit.

It almost reminded him of Belladonna, in their earlier days, while she was still green and knew how to push all of his buttons. He wondered what he was doing again, how good it was for his mental health to shepherd Ororo, when he was lying to himself daily that he even had control of his own life.

But Ororo was so vulnerable. Her outward strength was a shield, layers built up like the rings of a tree, sturdy as a weed that survived winter. But there were moments when he caught fleeting glimpses of the girl who had missed birthdays and slept in doorways and who had to depend on the kindness of strangers, flying in the face of motherly warnings never to do any such thing.

There were times when she made Remy feel like a man holding a lollipop out from the window of a sedan. He scoffed at himself; that wasn’t him. Could never be him. Ever. She was an adult, capable of saying no, and his door wasn’t locked from the outside. She was welcome to leave any time she got tired of Remy’s shit, something he’d made plain.

Her potential boggled him. It was like trying to count ripples when a raindrop disturbed the surface of a still pond. There was such a vicarious thrill for him to watch her enjoying things he took for granted, whether it was the brisk walk to the subway, knowing she actually had somewhere to be, and a reason to get up in the morning, a bed to get up from. She walked differently, sounded more confident, and her eyes lost that hollow look.

His own had lost focus; he’d entrenched himself so deeply in his musings that he didn’t realized where he was until he heard her voice calling out to him, uncertain but insistent.

“Remy? Rem?”

“Quoi?” he snapped impatiently, jerking himself around.

His mouth went dry and he felt a tightening in his gut…in his loins, for God’s sake. Ororo’s blue eyes bore into him and she straightened herself, hand automatically hooking itself at her hip with a snap. She vamped for him without a second thought, almost instinctively.

Remy blamed the dress. Oh, God, that dress… It rustled as she approached him.

“Tell me if it’s no good,” she demanded. He shifted the blame to that mouth, expertly lined and glossed in deep plum.

“It’ll be good if you don’t ruin it,” Selene cut in, but she was interrupted by another hard, deep female voice.

“Whatsamatter, kiddo, didn’tcha enjoy her little peep show out there? I sure did,” Callisto informed her, clearly amused.

“Cal,” Remy offered. She stepped in and gave him a shallow brush of her cheek against his that masqueraded as a kiss. “T’ought you were overseas.”

“Got homesick.”

“Made it here soon enough t’see de show,” he said, a note of accusation in his rich drawl.

“I had jet lag,” she murmured. She wasn’t contrite. Remy sighed.

“Right. Jet lag.” Piotr materialized out of nowhere, and he gave Callisto a stony glare.

“What the fuck are you doing back here?”

“Stretching my legs.”

“Stretch them that way,” he ordered, extending one brawny arm toward the door that led to the street. “Don’t even come back here. Are you fucking crazy? You’re going to come back here like you own the whole fucking place, after leaving me in a lurch?”

“You’re over it,” she snorted, rolling her eyes by the time he reached “like you own the whole fucking place.” She folded bony arms beneath her meager breasts and stared him down. “Looks like you’re getting by with the second string.” She nodded to Ororo, unimpressed.

Her tone got Ororo’s back up, raising her hackles and raising her chin a notch. “Nice try, Blue Eyes,” Callisto told her scornfully.

“Nice try, my ass.”

“Got enough of it,” Callisto yawned. Ororo fumed, feeling flames lick over her face and a strange tightening in the back of her skull.

This skinny, hard little heifer was gonna step to her?

“Jealous?”

“Hell, no!”

“You will be.” Ororo cut past her to Selene, who was organizing a basket of accessories. Ororo dove into it and snatched up an ornate, gilt-edged fan.

“What the fuck…HEY!” she barked. “Bring that back! That’s the wrong prop for that outfit.”

“Like hell,” Ororo muttered. She promptly fell into the lineup, cutting before a rail-thin blonde in sheer black chiffon.

“I was first!” the girl hissed.

“Tough. Do you want a cookie?” Ororo paused long enough for the beat of the song she was waiting for and started back down the runway. Anger fueled each step, and her strides became a steady stomp. Her hips didn’t sway; they snapped. Snap! went the ornate fan, sliding open to reveal the hand-painted characters and willow patterned designs. The black silk shantung was heavy and clung to her mercilessly, no less of a torture device than the hard wires and hooks of her corset underneath. She could barely breathe; it was moot. If a whiff of oxygen made its way to her brain, she’d take a moment to think. Each flash of her calves opened up the white froth of ruffles where the skirt was slit open in the front, wrapping around to a decadent train that swished out behind her.

Action superseded thought. She vamped, offering only a brittle, wintry smile as she reached the end of the runway. The flashbulbs were back, blinding but not distracting, not to Ororo; she looked through them, looked past the crowd, seeing Callisto in her mind’s eye and still hearing Kitty’s laughter in her ears.

You can fuck off, her inner voice barked. And so can you. And you. And you. She compiled a growing list, adding Selene and Emma with some semblance of satisfaction, then Cassandra Nova as an afterthought.

As though Ororo had summoned her, the diminutive platinum blonde caught Ororo’s eye. Just because she felt like it, Ororo tipped her chin up a notch and let her lips curl into a smile. Cassandra’s own smile faltered slightly and she narrowed her eyes. It was a shrewd look; was Ororo challenging her?

Her heart pounded in her chest as she made her way backstage.

“What the fuck was that?” Selene demanded, throwing up her hands. She whirled on Piotr. “What was that?” she repeated.

“Take your pill,” he urged her, expression deadpan. He turned back to Ororo. “Have someone help you out of that.”

“Fine.”

“Don’t let anything happen to it,” he added. There was a hint of amusement in his eyes. “The fan wasn’t supposed to go with it.” Ororo shrugged, then nodded.

“My bad.”

“No. Good. It worked.” Ororo felt a dwindling of her adrenaline and suddenly wobbled on her spindly heels. Someone was steering her into a chair.

“Chere, what’s de matter?”

“I’m fine,” she insisted. A bottle of chilled water was pushed between her lips, and she was surprised at how much she craved it.

“Get outta dat, quick!” Remy ordered, but Emma moved more quickly, jerking open the hook at the back of the dress. Ororo took a starving breath and her dizziness passed.

“Right. Maybe we use a minimizer next time,” Emma said, nodding to Ororo’s cleavage. Ororo glared at her as she worked her out of the dress; Remy calmly held up his hands in surrender and backed off.

“Pathetic,” Callisto muttered from behind her. Her reflection sneered at Ororo in the vanity’s mirror, but Ororo was nonplussed.

“Who’s the one blaming it on jet lag?”

“Fuck yourself.”

“Sure as hell wouldn’t fuck you,” Ororo told her blandly.





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