Fear the Rest
Chapter 7: Magneto
Erik left Raven and Victor at Avalon before midnight. The music was giving him a headache, and if he were perfectly honest with himself, so was the way Raven was dancing with Victor. Not that he had a right to object, he told himself; it was just that he'd always thought she had better taste.
She'd slipped out of Victor's encircling arm to kiss him when he left, her mouth tasting of tequila, her hair damp with sweat. "Don't wait up," she murmured. If she were any other woman he knew, he might have worried, but he trusted that Raven would find her own way home without incident, either that night or in the morning.
He walked back to the parking garage and retrieved the car, pulling out into the dark street without turning the radio on. The car seemed very quiet. Not that he had a right to be jealous. He sighed, and waved a hand at the radio, filling the car with the ripple of classical piano. After a minute he snapped it off again; it was only making him feel old.
He walked in the door of the apartment to the answering machine blinking and the sound of the phone ringing. He frowned at the answering machine and brought the phone sailing across to his hand. "Hello?"
"Erik," Raven said, a hint of relief in her voice. "Kevin's been arrested."
"Where are you?"
"At the police station," Raven said. "Victor's coming there to you -- he's too recognizable, and I think they're picking up anyone who was at Avalon."
"On what charges?"
He could almost hear Raven's angry shrug. "Incitement to riot? Being a dangerous mutant? I don't know. The police came in talking about fire code violations and closing the place down, and when they started checking IDs I think a lot of people panicked --"
"What about Kevin?"
"He took a swing at a police officer," Raven said. "The man was holding one of his friends, and she was screaming --" Her voice was a little unsteady. She'd seen this in East Germany, he thought. He'd seen it here in America. He remembered a bar raid he and Charles had narrowly escaped, their nervous laughter afterwards to cover their anger, the shame of not having managed to stop it --
"I'll come," Erik said.
"They won't post bail tonight."
"Even so," Erik said. "It's better to make it clear that people know where he is."
"A lot of people know," Raven said. "There were television cameras at the end, after all the fighting. Someone set a fire upstairs in the bar -- I think they put it out before anyone got hurt --" She still sounded shaken.
"I want to come."
"All right," Raven said. "I gave Victor my spare key."
This did not seem to be the moment to argue about that. "I should let people know --"
"There's no point in waking up Olivia before dawn," Raven said. "There's nothing she can do from France. I'm here, Victor's on his way there, and Brendan really shouldn't be driving when he just got out of the hospital --"
"What about your friends in New York --"
"I don't know , Erik. A lot of them were at Avalon. I can't call everyone on this phone, anyway, if the police can't trace their own phone --"
"I'll be there as soon as I can," Erik said.
There was something surreal about driving to New York in the middle of the night; when he managed to place what it reminded him of, he wished he hadn't. He parked the car some distance from the police station out of habitual caution, and walked the rest of the way. He could feel the metal that filled the street, cars and lampposts and window frames, ringing through his whole body. He opened and closed his hands and felt the power gathering there.
Raven was sitting on a cracked vinyl sofa in the waiting room, a styrofoam cup of coffee in her hand. Her hair was brown, her sweater and slacks trim and conservative. 'Katerina' was not usually seen in New York, and Erik raised an eyebrow as he sat down beside her on the grimy sofa.
Raven shrugged, keeping her voice low. "I thought it paid to be respectable."
"What now?"
She looked up at him. "You're asking me?"
His hands clenched in his lap. "We could take him out of here."
"If we do, he's a fugitive from justice. With a good lawyer, he might get off with probation or a few months in jail --"
"Unacceptable."
"I think he'd prefer it to being on the run permanently."
"He'll already lose his job."
"Maybe not. If people see this as a protest --"
"We can't leave him here."
"Erik, I've talked to him. He asked for a lawyer. He said to tell you it was okay, that he could handle it." He could see her unconsciously shifting her body language to mimic Kevin's, her tone of voice changing. "He said he was okay."
Erik took a deep breath and let it out. "Have you called Jennifer?"
"I've called Mario," Raven said. "I know you don't like him much, Erik, but Jennifer is a lot less intimidating than he is, and she's not a fighter."
"Mario doesn't like mutants," Erik said.
"No, but he likes hopeless causes," Raven said.
"What about 'he can get off with probation'?"
"Can we not argue right now, Erik?" He looked her over sharply. She wasn't the least bit disheveled, but he could see the strain in the way she held her cup, her fingers curled around it too carefully.
"Come and get something to eat," he said. "There's not much we can do until the arraignment."
"I'm all right," she said, but she let him steer her to a small deli serving bagels and more coffee. He drank it gratefully; he wasn't used to the light-headed feeling of excessive clarity that came with having been up all night.
There was a television set in the back of the deli, which Erik glanced at as they sat down and then ignored as the ever-present white noise that people seemed to love these days. When Raven went suddenly still, staring at a point above his shoulder, Erik turned to look.
"... when one of the suspects in custody after a late-night riot at a bar popular with mutants assaulted a police officer by biting him with what appeared to be poisonous fangs. Shots were fired, but all we know right now is that efforts are underway to ensure the safety of other officers ..."
Erik stood up, knocking over his chair, and strode for the door, with Raven hurrying behind him. They came around the corner to see police cars pulled up to the front of the station and sirens wailing. "Stay close," Erik said, and Raven wrapped her hand around his arm.
A police officer blocked his way as he climbed the stairs. "You can't go this way."
"I think I can," Erik said, and waved a hand, pushing the man hard away from him by all the useless metal he carried and wore. He walked quickly without running; running drew attention. Two other officers blocked the door, and he threw them as far as he could, ducking into the doorway. Behind him there was the crack of a gunshot, and he felt its weight as he deflected the bullet, sending it smashing harmlessly into the front of the building, splintering bricks.
"Kevin!" Raven called. Her eyes had gone yellow, her movements inhumanly graceful. There was a confused crowd inside the building, all talking at once and being herded back to one side of the waiting room by a handful of frightened officers. Erik pushed his way through the crowd.
"Everybody be patient," a policeman said. "Everything's under control."
"Kevin --" Raven begun, and then stopped short as the paramedics came through with a gurney, the form underneath it covered with a sheet, one sneaker showing, its laces gone. He recognized the shoes, had seen them new -- Brendan had teased Kevin about spending his hard-earned money to pretend to be a basketball star, and Kevin had stretched on his toes and shot imaginary baskets --
There was a commotion at the door to the station now, someone shouting "everybody down!" It was hard not to drop to the ground and hold very still, waiting for the gunshots, anyone but me --
Instead he turned, slowly, Raven keeping her hand gracefully on his arm. "I don't think so," he said in the sudden quiet.
"Who the fuck are you?" one of the braver police officers said, glaring at them as if he intended to tackle them barehanded.
"You can call me Magneto," Erik said, and he smiled down at Raven as if they were out for a walk in the park.
*****
Jean turned over restlessly in bed, not sure what had woken her. It was early yet, the familiar sun through the window not yet over the bottom branches of the large oak tree. Scott wasn't in bed, she realized, and sat up, running a hand through her hair. Scott was awake, angry, concentrating on something. She couldn't bring it into focus.
It wasn't fair to have emergencies this early in the morning, she thought, and slipped out of bed, dressing efficiently rather than simply throwing on a bathrobe over her nightshirt. If time were critical, Scott or Charles would have come to wake her up.
She could hear the television blaring in the rec room when she went downstairs, the wood of the stairs warm on her bare feet. She came in quietly; Scott was sitting on the sofa frowning at the television, and Ororo was in the chair, legs crossed, still wearing her pajamas.
"What's wrong?" Jean asked. The television had cut to commercials.
Ororo pressed a button to mute the sound of a cereal advertisement. "There was a riot at Avalon last night," she said. "And then a fight at the police station. Some kid got shot while he was in custody. There's about fifty people waving signs outside the police station, and about as many cops standing around looking scared."
Jean stared at the dancing rabbit clutching a cereal bowl on the television screen. "Why are we not in New York?"
"Because there are a million TV cameras rolling," Ororo said.
"Yes, but this is exactly the kind of thing ..."
"We can't," Scott said. "We can't afford to be seen in New York right now."
"Why? What aren't you telling me?"
The television cut back to news; "2 DEAD IN MUTANT RIOTS" appeared at the bottom of the screen, and then "'BROTHERHOOD OF MUTANTS' RESPONSIBLE?"
" What?" Jean grabbed for the remote telekinetically, succeeding only in knocking it to the floor. Scott picked it up and clicked on the sound.
"... are still looking for the man calling himself 'Magneto' who escaped after assaulting several police officers. Officials believe both 'Magneto' and the suspect who died this morning to be members of the 'Brotherhood of Mutants,' a radical group based in Boston ..."
Scott clicked the sound off again. "We are not going to New York. The professor is on the phone with Jennifer Walters. She's represented mutants before. He was talking about getting the ACLU involved, too."
"Is he okay?"
"What do you think?" Scott rubbed his temple. He was wearing his visor rather than sunglasses. "I almost don't blame him this time."
It took Jean a moment to realize Scott meant Dr. Lehnsherr. "That's ... surprising."
"I think the police were going to take this kid off into a back room and beat the shit out of him, and when he freaked out and bit somebody, they shot him." Scott shrugged. "I'm not sure I'd let them take me into a back room without fighting back."
"The professor is not going to be happy, though."
Scott turned up his hands in frustration. "You know, Jeannie, that's possibly not the most important thing right now."
"No, it's not," Charles said from the doorway. Scott flushed, and Jean felt as though she'd been caught passing notes in class. "Scott, if you'll keep an eye on the news, I'd like to take a look from Cerebro."
"I'll come, too," Jean said, sliding down off the back of the sofa. She expected argument, but found herself following Charles down to Cerebro instead.
"I expect you know how to be still," Charles said, putting on the headpiece.
"I won't distract you."
"I'd almost welcome distraction." Charles frowned in concentration, and the walls blurred and rushed away from them, replaced by darkness and a million scarlet points of light. "It's harder to find a place than a person," he said distantly, "but I think ..."
A young woman came suddenly into focus, sitting with her knees tucked up to her chest on the narrow bench of a jail cell. Around her other people were pacing. The focus pulled back and Jean could see the tight concentration of mutant signatures clustered together; the only place she'd seen in Cerebro that looked that way was the school itself.
The lights blurred again, and the focus tightened on a young man waving a hand-lettered sign. Now sound, echoing in her head -- wish I had some coffee, it's cold, if I knew what they were doing in there --
Jean put her hands to her head, unable to help it; it was too loud, it hurt --
The lights spiraled out of existence, the walls of the room rushing back into place, and Charles turned, frowning. "This was a bad idea."
"No, it wasn't," Jean said quickly. "I'm okay. It was just -- intense." She sighed. "I'll go out if I'm distracting you, though."
"The situation doesn't seem to be critical at the moment," Charles said. "That can change, of course, and I'll keep monitoring it. It's just as well that fall classes haven't started yet."
"I could help out," Jean said. She smiled a little. "I never minded."
"I wouldn't ask you to," Charles said. "I can't expect you to drop everything to teach English."
"If you're in Cerebro, someone has to take classes." Jean leaned against the machinery of Cerebro. "Have you thought about hiring another teacher?"
"Scott will be finished with student teaching after the fall semester," Charles said. "I think I can hold out until then."
"Oh," Jean said. Her fingers searched idly across the familiar console. "He's coming here to teach, then?"
"The two of you haven't discussed it?"
"Well, I guess we have. I just didn't think he'd decided anything."
"Maybe you ought to talk to Scott."
"It's not that I don't -- it's just that I've been thinking about residencies in the city next year --"
"Which you aren't obliged to turn down," Charles said.
"Yes, but I know Scott wants us to be in the same place --"
"Scott wants a lot of things, but he can't tell you what's best for you."
"I said I wanted to be on the team. I still want to be on the team."
Charles glanced down at the headpiece in his hands. "I don't think there's a shortage of problems for mutants in New York," he said. "Or that we'll run out of things for you to do before you finish your residency."
Jean took the headpiece from him, meaning to replace it on its mounting, and then hesitated. "Are you going to look for Dr. Lehnsherr?"
"You mean 'Magneto'?" Charles shook his head, looking grim. "What would be the point?"
Jean wished she had an answer to that.
*****
"You people are the worst clients I have ever had, and that's including the guy who shot his wife," Mario said, leaning back in the diner booth and scowling at Erik and Raven across the remains of his grilled ham on rye. "He did what I told him to do."
Erik gave him a withering look, which seemed to have minimal effect. Raven put a restraining hand on Erik's arm. "You're not representing us," she said. "Just get everybody else out of jail before there are any more 'accidents.'"
"Assault on a police officer is not an accident."
"Police brutality is also not an accident," Erik said.
"You got any proof for that?"
"No," Raven said. "We have a corpse."
Mario sighed, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "They don't pay me to be nice, okay? Your friend's dead, that sucks. You want more sympathy than that, call a priest. You want your people out of jail, I can maybe do that. No promises. I'll go up for the arraignments and see if I can figure out who actually did anything naughty and who's guilty of being a dumb fuck who got in the way."
"If there's anybody who can't post bail, we may be able to cover it," Raven said. "There's some money in the Brotherhood's accounts."
"If you're not my clients, please don't tell me about the money in your illegal organization's accounts, okay? Besides, as much as I hate to turn down someone offering to foot the bill, it's covered. You people have more friends than I would have figured given your sparkling personalities."
Erik raised an eyebrow, and Mario shrugged. "Legal services courtesy of someone called Warren Worthington the third. Apparently Worthington Enterprises is into mutant rights now. Next thing you know you people will be trendy, like baby seals."
Raven looked up at Erik. "I always told you that you underestimated him."
"I always thought he could write checks."
"Yes, but he could be writing some to us."
"I hear nothing, I see nothing, I don't know why I'm even still here," Mario said. He flipped a twenty-dollar bill onto the table. "Want some free legal advice? You two are in a shitload of trouble. If you want to turn yourselves in, claim it was political theater -- "
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Raven said with a bright smile.
Mario sighed. "Fine. It's your funeral."
"I think the point is that it isn't," Raven said. "We'll be in touch."
"Use a pay phone," Mario said. "The feds do not play nice."
Erik drove them back to Boston, carefully obeying the traffic laws. Raven was methodically retrieving everything she cared to keep from the glove compartment and under the passenger seat. She looked up at him when he stopped at a red light, perfectly calm now.
"We'll have to take what we can and go," she said. "I'm trying to think who I have the best documents for -- Andrew, maybe. I can rent an apartment in New Jersey. Andrew has family there, but he doesn't talk about them. The only one he's still speaking to is an aunt in Jersey City."
"Andrew doesn't exist," Erik pointed out, feeling it was relevant to keep in mind.
"Of course he does," Raven says. "I'm him."
"His aunt doesn't exist."
"I'm her, too," Raven said. "I think we should leave the car here. You can get us a nice one when we leave. Something with leather seats."
"I'm not sure anyone who lives in our building has leather seats."
"So we'll trade up."
In the apartment, Raven pulled out the suitcases they'd bought for their last trip to the beach and began filling them quickly and decisively. He stood and watched her for a minute, suddenly unable to move.
"Magneto," she said, turning to look up at him with yellow eyes. "Hurry."
He brought a row full of wire hangers to his hand and sent them tumbling into his suitcase, and brought it hovering behind him as he strode into the living room after his books. Only a handful would fit, and he grimly ignored the rest, reaching up to pull down the notebooks from the top shelf of his desk.
The file folders from the desk and the old journals from the shelf beside it went into the suitcase along with Raven's photo albums and her camera. He was wearing his watch, and gathered up his hat and coat from the closet. He hated to leave his good dress shoes, but Magneto felt they were not a priority.
He stood with the suitcase floating in front of him and looked around the apartment. A clean break was best, anyway. He flicked off the kitchen light out of habit, and then on reflection turned it back on, and added the television to contribute to the illusion of someone home.
"My camera, and the pictures --" Raven began, and he tapped the closed suitcase in front of him. Raven ducked into the kitchen and came out with a grocery bag in one hand, towing her suitcase behind her with the other. She looked like a suburban housewife off to the country for a weekend. She smiled, and Magneto tipped his hat to her.
"I'll get the car," he said lightly; when he came back upstairs to collect her, he resisted the urge to look over her shoulder for one last glance at the apartment. Magneto wasn't the sort to look back; the nice thing about being Magneto, Erik thought on the way down to the stolen car, was having fewer regrets.
"Think about it this way," Raven said, when the feeling of being a James Bond villain had worn off and he was staring moodily out the window watching the billboards crawl by. "Our relocation courtesy of William Stryker and the Weapons X program."
Erik smiled, although it wasn't a nice smile. "I wonder if they have any other toys they're not playing with right now."
"I could ask Victor," Raven said. "Although I might have to get him drunk first."
Erik hadn't really believed in Victor's "secret weapons cache" until he'd survived the hike into the mountains and stood sweaty and aching in front of a pair of metal doors half-covered with climbing weeds. Raven had given them an appraising look. "Open sesame?"
It hadn't been easy, but he'd opened them, the metal groaning with the strain. Victor had hung back uncharacteristically while he and Raven investigated; Erik had started to say something scathing about his loss of nerve and then thought better of it. There had been some weapons, not standard military issue but top-of-the line stuff, but the real find had been two cases full of Swiss bearer bonds.
"Congratulations," Raven had said, holding them up to the light. "We are in a lot of trouble."
Erik had snorted. "Stryker's not bright enough to come looking for us."
"Is anyone who works for him? This is a lot of money."
"We need a lot of money," Erik had pointed out. "This will do nicely."
Now he drummed his fingers on the door of the car. "I think it's time to spend some money."
Raven looked pleased. "I'm always up for shopping."
Erik flicked on the radio. The music was loud, with a driving beat, the sort of thing Raven liked. He turned it up; it made it harder to think, and at the moment that was all to the good.
*****
Jean came downstairs to the sound of Scott arguing with someone in the rec room; from the fact that the argument seemed one-sided, she gathered he was on the phone. She picked up the phone at the foot of the stairs with only a minor sense of guilt.
"-- in front of the damn television cameras, Hank?"
"Protesting," Hank said calmly. "Non-violently. There are quite a few people here, despite the fact that it's threatening to rain. It's really very inspiring."
"I said we were not going to New York."
"Hi," Jean said.
"Good afternoon, Jean," Hank said.
"Hank is at the protest," Scott said.
"I gathered that," Jean said. "Hank --"
"I assure you Scott has made an excellent case for why I shouldn't be here."
"But you are there," Scott said.
"Well, yes, I am. It still seems to me that I should be."
"Hank," Scott said, and there was more weariness than anger in his tone. "We've been through this before. If you're going to be part of the team, you've got to follow orders."
"In that case, it's possible that it would be best if I weren't part of the team," Hank said. "I don't take well to being given orders. Especially not from someone who's currently sitting in Westchester watching television."
"Hank ... " Jean began. "Look, don't do anything hasty ..."
"I never do," Hank said, a little sadly, and hung up.
Jean put down the phone and went into the rec room. Scott was standing by the window, his whole body tight. She came up behind him and rubbed his shoulders. "You shouldn't have told him he had to follow orders."
"I know," Scott said. "I just wish somebody would sometimes."
"So, you're coming here to teach? When did you decide that?" It wasn't quite how she'd meant to bring the subject up, but she couldn't stop herself.
Scott turned to face her. "I ... a while ago, I guess. As soon as I decided I really was going to survive student teaching."
"So, at the beginning of the summer."
"I hadn't exactly decided."
"But at some point you decided."
"I'm sorry," Scott said. "I just ... I can't go do something else and pretend this isn't the most important thing. This is who I am." He turned up his hands. Jean wished she could see his eyes. "I'm sorry."
"I wish you'd told me."
"I wish I'd told you, too," Scott said.
"I'm going to need to get a car if I'm going to be driving out here on the weekends."
"I'm sure you could borrow one of the professor's cars."
"To keep in the city? It would get scratched, or rusted, or breathed on or something. He'd kill me."
Scott smiled crookedly. "So don't take the Porsche."
"Are you kidding? I will be forty before Charles thinks I am old enough to drive the Porsche."
"I know you're still mad at me," Scott said. "I really meant to tell you before now. I just -- I wasn't sure what you'd want to do."
Jean stepped in closer, putting her arms around Scott's waist. "I love you," she said. "And I know why you want to do this. I just need time. I can learn so much more in a hospital in the city than I can in a county clinic."
Scott nodded. "Sure," he said, but she could feel the ache in his chest. It made her want to promise she wasn't angry. She wasn't sure anymore whether she was or not.
"Are you saying that because you want me to do what I want, or because it's better for the team if I'm a good doctor?"
Scott pressed his face to her hair. "I want you to do what you want," he said, and she wished she could believe it was the whole truth.
That evening there was a knock on the door, and when Scott answered it Jean could hear him say "Of course. I'll go get him" so calmly that she was on her feet at once. Ororo opened her mouth to ask a question and Jean shook her head furiously. Charles, trouble.
Stay calm, Charles said in return, although his own feelings were less calm than icily tight control. Ororo jumped, as if at a sudden noise, and then nodded; Charles must have been speaking to her, too, Jean thought. Ororo smiled at Jean in tense reassurance and slipped out of the rec room in the direction of the old servants' stairs. They would take her upstairs without bringing her near the entryway.
Jean, Charles said, as if reaching out a hand to draw her to his side, and she moved quickly, meeting him as he came down out of the elevator, Scott already at his side. Scott had traded the visor for sunglasses, she saw. The man was waiting in the lobby, a non-descript man in a dark suit.
"Hello," Charles said, smiling. "I'm Charles Xavier. I apologize for keeping you waiting."
"Mr. Xavier," the man said, in a pleasant enough tone. "I'm Agent Jacobs with the FBI. Id just like to ask you a few questions about Erik Lehnsherr."
Jean had been expecting the words, and bracing herself not to react, but she was still grateful to feel Charles's mental touch stilling her against any impulse to flinch or look away. Scott frowned in apparent mild concern; she wondered whether he was on his own, or whether Charles was helping him as well.
"Erik Lehnsherr hasn't worked here in almost ten years," Charles said.
"You haven't heard from him?"
"Not in a number of years," Charles said. "We're not on social terms."
"Is there a reason for that?"
"Please, sit down," Charles said. "Would you like some coffee?"
"No, thank you," Jacobs said. He sat. "Is there a reason you're -- what was it, 'not on social terms' -- with Erik Lehnsherr?"
The next half hour seemed endless. Jean listened to Charles answer Jacobs's questions mildly. He and Erik had disagreed about educational philosophy. He was afraid their discussions had been rather heated. The strain of working together when their aims were so different had put an end to an old friendship, for which he was sorry.
"It wasn't about anything political?"
"Not at all," Charles said.
Jacobs tapped his pen against the small notebook he had open on his lap. "Did you know he was a mutant?"
"Yes," Charles said.
"You didn't have a problem with him being around kids?"
"I saw no reason for Erik's mutation to pose a danger to anyone."
"And what -- " Jacobs began, and then broke off. Charles was meeting his eyes very deliberately. The air seemed to have thickened suddenly. Jean realized the man was sweating. "I, that is --" Jacobs glanced down at his notebook. "You didn't think it was dangerous."
"No," Charles said. "I did not."
"Why not?"
"I had no reason to think so."
"What about you?" the man said abruptly. "Are you a mutant?"
Charles smiled pleasantly. "Of course not."
The man wiped at his forehead. "I --" He glanced down at his notebook. "No, Mr. Xavier, I wasn't implying that I think you're a mutant. But Erik Lehnsherr --"
"Is someone I haven't spoken to in a long time," Charles said. "I'm sorry I haven't been able to help you more with your inquiries."
"That's all right," Jacobs said. "I don't imagine there's much to find out around here."
"It must be a pretty boring job," Scott said. "Going around interviewing high school teachers."
"It has its moments," Jacobs said.
"Are you sure you don't want a cup of coffee for the road?"
Afterwards Jean made cocoa instead in the kitchen, an old habit in times of stress. Charles sat at the breakfast table gazing out the window with an expression she found hard to read.
"You probably could have told him what Dr. Lehnsherr's mutation is," she said. "I think they know that."
"It's the principle of the thing," Charles said, and there was a hint of stubbornness in his expression.
Jean poured the cocoa, shaking her head. "I was scared to death. Some superhero I make."
Scott leaned into the doorway. "The kids are in bed. Ororo says they all did just great."
"This wasn't a serious investigation," Charles said. "Or, at least, not of us."
"I'm still glad you were here," Scott said.
Charles looked at him over his cup. "And If I hadn't been?"
The old game, Jean thought. "We'd have answered their questions."
"If he'd asked if we were mutants --" Scott frowned. "Jean is out to some people at work, and there are people who know about me. I'm not sure whether it would have been better to lie or tell the truth."
"If we'd said we were, they would have asked about the kids," Jean said.
"If they'd wanted to take us for questioning --"
"They didn't," Jean said.
"Yes, but if they had," Scott said.
"Ororo would stay with the kids."
"If they took Ororo."
"That didn't happen."
"I just think you should talk to the kids in the fall about what they'd do if there weren't any adults around. If we got arrested, or if --" Scott broke off. He flushed red again, but met Charles's eyes. Jean wondered what they were saying to each other.
"I have, Scott," Charles said finally, aloud. "But I think you're right that it would be best if there was more discussion of plans for emergencies. It's easier to face things when you're prepared."
"They're good kids," Scott said. "They can handle knowing that it's a dangerous world."
When Scott went up to bed, Jean started clearing the cups away. She could feel the pressure of Scott's tension lifting away from her as he went upstairs; her own was bad enough. She hesitated with her back to Charles as she put the cups in the sink.
"Were you scared?" she asked.
"What do you think?" Charles asked, his voice wry. "The words FBI investigation are one of the things I have nightmares about."
Jean turned with a rueful smile. "Some superheroes we make."
"We're all only human," Charles said.
*****
Erik was profoundly skeptical about Victor teaching Raven to fly a helicopter. He was fairly skeptical about the helicopter, which had been acquired as what Victor described as "army surplus" and Erik suspected was "stolen property." He repaired what he could, but he wasn't sure what everything did, and had to rely on books for enlightenment; Victor displayed no interest whatsoever in teaching him.
To his relief, Raven decided fairly quickly that she needed actual training from someone who spoke in more than monosyllables, and enrolled in a flight course as a balding car salesman who wanted to work in local radio. When she finally slid behind the controls of their helicopter, her fingernails were long and red and her hair platinum blonde, and she flashed him a Bond girl smile.
"You're sure you know what you're doing," Erik said.
"Victor took me up already," Raven said. "He does know how to fly. He just isn't much of a conversationalist."
"I'd noticed," Erik said, strapping himself in.
"You can't be afraid of flying, Erik. You wouldn't let us fall."
"Please do not make it necessary for me to levitate a crashing helicopter."
"We won't crash," Raven said. She looked at him sideways, hesitating without turning on the rotors.
"I'm not jealous," Erik said, aware that ignoring that expression entirely was unwise.
"I'm glad to hear it," Raven said levelly.
"Just mystified."
"He's very handsome," Raven said.
"In an animal sort of way."
"You don't have to understand."
He let out his breath deliberately. "No. I don't."
She smiled brightly, some of the tension gone out of the air. Her excitement was contagious, and he looked out of the window.
"Take us up," he said.
She was still on a high when they came into Apocalypse that night, and the handful of young mutants they were meeting there felt it; they gathered around a table in the back of the bar and listened raptly as "Raven" gave them the talk Brendan summed up as "Mr. Policeman is not your friend." Erik and Brendan retreated to one of the tables the young people had abandoned, happy to let Raven enlighten the young about the facts of life. Occasionally Raven glanced their way as she talked; he suspected "Magneto, the master of magnetism" was being invoked, and tried to look ominous.
Brendan was watching Raven more than he was paying attention to the conversation. Erik raised an eyebrow at him.
"Just thinking about the way she fights," Brendan said. "There's something in the way she moves when she's even talking about it." He traced a scissoring spiral with the fingers of one hand, pleased at whatever pattern it made. "I can see it," he said. "Ballet for dragonfly and helicopter."
"She'll be flattered," Erik said.
"I'm not working right now, Erik. And we all understand that 'right now' is a euphemism, right?" He turned his drink around in his glass. "I feel fine," he said. "For varying values of fine. But I haven't gotten through an entire production feeling fine in a while. North by Clockwise went up under my name when I was actually in the hospital watching daytime drama, and it was fucking unfair, and we're not going to do that again. Toni wants to keep my name on the company's roster, which makes me suspect she is not really enough of a bitch for this business. I think 'executive choreographer' has a nice ring to it, don't you?"
"I never did see North by Clockwise," Erik said. Some part of him that had been ignoring calendars realized as if for the first time that he had not been back to Boston for months.
"It was mediocre. Anyway, you were busy getting evicted."
"It was more of a voluntary relocation."
"The kind where the FBI visits all your friends, I take it," Brendan said. "I told them I suspected you were a communist, but I don't think they believed me."
Erik laughed. Raven gave him an odd look over the shoulder of a red-furred girl; Erik suspected it was not quite Magneto's laugh. "If you've got time on your hands, you could come out to the island," he said. "I could use someone who can move things that aren't metal."
"Have you started building, then?"
"I'm almost done."
Erik took Raven out to the island in a boat so she could get the full effect of the approach through the knife-edged crack in the high cliffs into the open cavern that served as a harbor, with the metal gratings of windows and ledges spaced along the high walls on either side. It was warm for December, warm enough that she stripped off her sweater once they were out of the wind and shivered back into her own skin. Erik kept his own sweater on; he always felt the cold more than she did. He waved a hand as they pulled the boat up to the dock, and above them the lights snapped on.
He'd done most of the work himself, although Victor had brought loads of iron scrap out to the island on the boat and Raven had come by at intervals with groceries, looking around curiously without asking too many questions. He'd only cut into the stone where he had to. Mostly he'd left the stark lines of the rock alone and added the cool sweep of metal. It was bleak and lovely, hiding everything from the outside and nothing from the inside; walking up the curve of the long stone stairs he could see its bones.
He could also see that Raven wasn't entirely pleased. She turned around in the large open room he had envisioned as space for meetings or briefings or as a refuge in emergencies.
"If it has to be so very James Bond, couldn't there be more . . ." Her fingers traced graceful little circles in the air. "Fur rugs? Lava lamps? . . . Furniture?"
"It's meant to be a secret base, not a ski lodge," Erik said.
"We could have a secret base at a ski lodge," Raven said.
He put his arm around her waist. "You hate it," he said.
"I'm just still not sure I understand it."
He kissed her on the temple. "You'd prefer a house with a white picket fence?"
Raven laughed. "Hardly. She turned around again, looking up at the high ceiling and smiling a little. "You build a good lair."
He felt the corner of his mouth quirk upward. "A lair?"
"A lair," she said decisively. "I've always wanted a secret lair." Erik kissed her on the cheek. "We should have a party," she said. "A lair-warming."
"We can hardly send out party invitations," Erik said.
Raven smiled. "I can," she said. "To the right people."
"And you can talk to them about mutant politics when they're feeling properly appreciative?"
"No," Raven said. "Magneto can."
They settled on New Year's Eve, and laid in quite a bit of alcohol, along with what seemed like a staggering amount of food. They were still short on furniture by the week after Christmas, although a number of steel chairs and tables were now in evidence. They'd wired a sound system and put in a microphone so Erik could talk to a crowd without shouting. Raven was insisting on disco balls.
The night of the party, he considered clothes, and allowed Raven to coax him into a red satin shirt and tight black pants, with leather boots; after all, Magneto would be hosting the party. Erik Lehnsherr didn't get out much these days. His few remaining clothes were beginning to look quite lonely in the closet.
"Better them than me," Erik said, and shut the door.
The helicopter had brought a few early guests from the mainland, who were milling around helping Raven with the lights and looking at the food with the polite disinterest of early party guests everywhere. Erik went down to the dock and watched the reddish light from outside slowly fade, the lights coming up along the high stone walls.
The lights of the boat swam into view. Erik smiled, and turned his palms up, lifting it neatly out of the water and bringing it smoothly into the dock gear. He enjoyed the looks he got, and bowed a little as Victor hustled the little crowd out onto the wet stone of the dock.
"Welcome," Magneto said.
Erik didn't drink much at parties anymore. The Master of Magnetism seemed to have no such reservations, at least not that night; after all, they were all family. He was surprised but pleased to find himself laughing with his arm around the shoulders of a pretty girl with antennae poking out from her butter-yellow hair, an hour or so into the party, and had to force himself to turn the conversation back to mutant rights.
The crowd was larger than he'd expected. The murmur of voices was combining with the music into a roar like the half-heard sound of the ocean. He kissed the girl's hand in farewell, winning a sigh, and hunted for Raven. He found her dancing, blue skin sparkling in the light that fractured off three metallic spheres he kept chasing one another in a complicated orbit around the ceiling.
He slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her bodily off the dance floor. She laughed and clung to his shoulder. She'd been drinking too.
"Where did all these people come from?" he said.
"You invited them," Raven said. "Or else I did. We've checked out everyone who came on the boat or the helicopter."
"I'm not worrying," Erik said. "Just surprised."
"You've got to make a speech," Raven said. "Have another drink."
He did, and then, well-fortified with gin, made what he thought was a very lucid speech. It might, he supposed in retrospect, have been a little long. In any event, people applauded when he stopped.
After that, there was more gin, and a portion of the evening that remained warmly hazy in his memory afterwards. It involved dancing, and talking enthusiastically if not terribly coherently about the Brotherhood to anyone who would listen, and sending the disco balls down to skim the crowd, and occasionally to chase people he didn't like.
At some point, Victor returned to the party dripping wet and cheerful; he was telling anyone who'd listen that he'd been thrown off a cliff. Erik wondered by whom. Certainly not Raven, who was refusing to leave the dance floor, shoving away one dance partner after another as they faded and moving on to the next.
She was gloriously naked; he watched hands move up and down her body and thought about going to brush them aside and wrap himself around her on the dance floor. He pushed through the crowd. In one spot the room's sound faded to quiet; he looked curiously at the burned-brown man with dark eyes who sat cross-legged in the middle of the bubble of quiet. The man shrugged and smiled. He took a step forward; sound returned.
Victor had a girl up against the wall. Erik didn't look too closely at what they were doing. Well, not very closely. He had the sudden urge to run his fingers through the man's mane of blond hair, in one splendid final lapse of judgment. He didn't, although he disliked the idea of anything he couldn't do.
He considered finding some less lethal way of working out his mood, but the combination of alcohol and passing time was beginning to wear him down. He steered a course around the dance floor and leaned against a wall. Two of the disco balls had landed. A third was weaving its way around the floor a foot or so off the ground, occasionally tripping people. He released his control over it entirely and watched it roll across the floor to the nearest metal wall, where it stuck.
He found Raven and leaned on her arm to be heard over the music. "Don't let anything catch fire," he said. "I'm going to bed."
He found his room and glared at the couple in it until they fled; they'd left a bottle, but he wasn't sure he needed more to drink. He fell back on the bed and watched the ceiling to be sure it wasn't moving.
The door opened.
"Go away," he said.
"Are you sure about that?" Raven said.
"Oh, it's you." He smiled and rolled over. "Come here."
She climbed into bed, nestling against him. He kissed her slowly. Her hand drifted down to his hip.
"I've been taking pictures," she said. He looked up. Her camera was resting on the curved iron pedestal of the nightstand.
"I imagine you got some interesting ones," he said, listening to the noise from outside.
There was a crash, as of breaking glass. "Do you think I should-"
"No," Raven said firmly. She rested her weight on him, making it hard for him to have moved if he had wanted to. "I don't."
He woke in the dark to the door creaking open. He'd dozed off somewhere in the middle, but Raven wasn't complaining; she was sleeping heavily herself, her head pillowed on his arm, her arm draped over his back.
He knew the footsteps, and sitting up seemed like far too much trouble.
"You won't mind, will you?" Brendan asked softly. "There aren't nearly enough beds."
"Make yourself at home," Erik murmured, and closed his eyes again.
He woke to the sound of the shower running. He lifted his head, anticipating pain, and from its absence concluded that he hadn't yet sobered up. He reached across the bed, and felt Brendan's shoulder.
Brendan opened his eyes a bit sheepishly. "Erik."
"Hello," he said, and pulled Brendan in for a kiss. It was warm and inspiring. Raven had dealt with most of Erik's clothes last night, and Brendan's pants were in a pool by the edge of the bed. He tasted very good.
"I think we're drunk," Brendan said. He pressed Erik down against the pillow and kissed him. "Isn't that Raven in the shower?" he said against Erik's cheek.
"I think so," Erik said.
"So," Brendan said, as Erik pulled him down to press harder against him, bare skin against bare skin, "Won't she come back?"
"So?" Erik said.
Brendan laughed. "You are drunk."
He knew he was, but he wasn't ready to trade the feeling for cold-edged sobriety. He kissed Brendan unhurriedly, pressing up against his warmth. Brendan shifted lower, and Erik rocked against him, eyes closed, unthinking.
After a minute Brendan turned his head away, breathless. "Raven. Shower."
"We're not really doing anything," Erik said.
"Hmm," Brendan said, but he let himself be drawn back down, his mouth to Erik's throat. Erik ran his hands through Brendan's hair.
The bathroom door opened. "Hello, Raven," Erik said, eyes still closed.
She laughed. "Hello yourself."
"Raven," Brendan said, lifting his head. "You were in the shower, you see--"
She laughed again, clearly not entirely sober herself. "Don't mind me."
Erik leaned back in a haze and waited for the hand cupping his thigh to move higher.
There was a click and a flash.
His eyes met Brendan's.
"She wouldn't," Brendan said.
"Raven, put down the camera," Erik said.
"Why should I? You're pretty," she said.
Erik made a dangerous noise and started to get up, but he was meeting resistance; Brendan made a creditable effort to wrestle him back to the bed, and Erik felt it wouldn't be fair to struggle too hard. "Whose side are you on?" he said, trying to retreat under the covers.
"Well, hers, of course," Brendan said, pausing in his struggle to keep the blankets away from Erik. "She's the scary one."
Erik pulled Brendan down and rolled him over so Brendan was on his back, one of Erik's hands spreading his thighs while the other worked on the buttons of his shirt. Brendan closed his eyes, and then the camera flashed.
"Damn it, Raven," Brendan said, laughing, and tried to take shelter in the tangled sheet. "If you take one more picture of me in this position, I'll--"
"You'll what?"
"Probably get hurt very badly if I try to stop you."
Erik leaned over Brendan, bending his head to taste him, working his way hungrily down his stomach.
"You would," he said, a little breathless now himself. "She has a black belt."
"I have a rattan belt," Brendan said. "And a crocodile one. Or is it alligator? I'm never sure--"
Erik lifted his head, half-sprawled across Brendan's chest. "How can I concentrate if you keep making me laugh?"
The camera flashed.
"I don't know, Erik. How can you?"
Erik pressed Brendan down under his weight, getting his hand where he wanted it. Brendan strained against him, breathing hard. Erik held onto him hard, hoping his hands weren't gripping painfully tight, and felt him shudder in Erik's hands and then go still.
The bed moved as Raven draped herself on Brendan's other side. It was quiet for a while except for the sound of their breathing.
"Raven," Erik said finally, almost a growl.
"Right here," she said, amused. She slid over Brendan to him, straddling him and pressing him down. He kissed her, his hands tightening on her hips, and cupped her breast in one hand, thumbing the nipple. She tilted her head back, pleased.
The bed creaked. Erik played with her breasts for as long as he could bear to, and then made a noise of surrender, sliding one hand around her hip over the smooth scales between her legs. Smooth and warm, then soft and warm and wet. She pressed against him. "Erik."
"Yes, just like that," Brendan said, and the camera flashed.
"Oh, no," Raven said.
Erik laughed and held her as best he could when she struggled. "They do say turnabout is fair play."
"I'll show you fair play," Raven said, rolling over and pulling him down to her.
The lair was a disaster in the hard light of mid-afternoon. Broken glass mingled with abandoned plates and dripping-wet discarded towels, either the result of showers or more throwing guests off cliffs. His hangover was bad enough to remind him why he tried not to get drunk.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, they'd all gone. Victor was ferrying the last load of passengers to the mainland in the boat. The lair was very quiet. Erik and Raven lay sprawled on the bed, enjoying the cool salt air and the quiet, hands idly twined.
"We need more beds," Raven said.
"You mean when we do this again, sometime next century?"
"That's only eight years away," Raven said. "Do you know it's been more than ten years?" She twined her fingers in his hair. "Any regrets?" she asked, very lightly.
"None," Erik said. He closed his eyes and let her soothe away his lingering headache. Around him there was none of the usual confusion of moving cars and people with their metal toys. All he could feel was the cool sweep of iron around them, like hands cradling them against the emptiness of the sea.
Later that week Raven had the pictures from the party developed; most of them served as a pictorial record of the party's slide into drunken disorder. She thumbed through the last of the photos, several unreadable expressions flickering across her face, and then handed him one. The two of them were curled around each other in the tangled sheets, smiling at each other and ignoring the camera.
"Pretty," he said. "But I think there's better blackmail material in here." He reached for the sheaf of photos, and she folded them away from him.
"Maybe not," she said.
He caught her hand and turned it. She was a good photographer too, he thought distantly, looking at the shadows the flash cast under Brendan's sharp bones; her camera laid bare what he'd been trying not to see.
*****
Jean followed Scott downstairs in the elevator. "Tell me again why we're down here?"
"I have something to show you," he said. She could still hear the phantom sound of the party above, although she didn't think the voices actually carried down to the basement. Warren had arrived with a tanned California girl in tow; Jean was still examining her feelings for any lurking jealousy, but she was fairly sure she was mainly relieved. Scott and Warren seemed to be getting along better than usual, which was good, because Hank and Scott were providing all the tension the party needed.
"If this is just a ploy to get me to make out with you in the medical lab --"
"You can play doctor later," Scott said. "I want you to see this first."
There was a new door set in the steel-plated hallway, and Jean frowned, trying to imagine where it could possibly lead on the floor plan of the basement in her head. "I don't get it," she said.
"I started poking around down here looking for a back way out of the mansion," Scott said. "We found this whole space that had been boarded up. I guess it used to be storage, or just part of the way they built the foundation." He slid the door open and ushered her inside. The large open space smelled of damp clay and rust.
"This is ... a really big room," Jean said. Her footsteps echoed on sheet metal. "Did you put all this in?"
"Yeah. The professor had the flooring left over."
"Flooring, paneling, ceilinging. It's sort of the all-stainless steel decorating effect." Jean's fingers were tingling from the champagne. She pulled her sweater down over her hands; it was cold in the basement.
"I don't think I'm going to do the ceiling," Scott said. "Unless 'Magneto' turns up to help. Anyway, we're putting in a door."
"In the ceiling?"
"Yep." Scott grinned. "This is where we're putting the plane."
Charles showed her the plans, in the library with the door pulled almost shut; Hank was perched on the chair by the library door like a sentinel, giving most people who wandered in discouraging glares and dragging a select few in. "It's just a light passenger plane," he said. "We might want something a little more adventurous in the long run."
"Do you know how to fly a plane?"
"Ororo is taking flying lessons," Charles said. The glass of champagne beside him looked largely untouched, but he seemed to have caught Scott's mood. "I don't suppose I'll get the opportunity to use it much myself."
"Just explain to me again why a high school needs a plane."
"Most high schools don't," Scott said. "But we do." He smiled crookedly at Warren. "We don't all have wings."
"I can't exactly go flapping around the countryside, either," Warren pointed out. "I like it." He glanced at the library door. "Candy is going to come looking for me if I don't get back out there, though."
Hank mouthed "Candy ?" at Jean over Warren's shoulder, with an appalled expression. Jean hid a smile.
"She's cute, Warren," she said.
"Thanks," Warren said. "I can always count on my friends for the sarcasm."
"I wasn't being sarcastic," Jean said. "I really -- I mean, I'm glad you're happy, Warren." She leaned up to kiss him on his warm cheek. She could smell his aftershave.
Scott cleared his throat. "So, the plane," he said.
"It's nice," Jean said. "But wouldn't a hangar outside be more practical?"
"This way it's more ..." Scott trailed off.
"Stealthy," Hank suggested.
"Cooler," Scott said.
"Right," Jean said. Scott frowned at her tone. Warren's eyes flickered to her and then back to Scott. He hooked his arm through Scott's.
"Let's find another drink, and then I really ought to find Candy."
"Is her name really Candy?" Scott asked as they went out.
"It's better than 'Cyclops,'" Warren said. The door shut behind him
Jean shook her head at Charles. "I think it's silly."
"I think they find it inspirational," Charles said. "And we really do need a way to get to mutants who need help," Charles said. "Or, conceivably, to leave here in a hurry."
"I'm not complaining about the plane, I guess," Jean said. "Just -- do we really need a secret underground hangar?"
"Not for this plane, no," Charles said. Jean shook her head, wondering if he had been drinking. There was something very fey about his mood, if not. Hank cleared his throat, and Jean remembered guiltily that he was still there.
"I'm afraid I must leave if I'm going to be back for my roommate's New Year's Day festivities," he said. "Jean ..."
"I'll see you out," Jean said.
In the hallway to the garage, all was fairly quiet, although there was the sound of laughter behind her and the faint noise of the television reporting the scene in Times Square. "Have you decided what you're doing about the team?"
"You can always call me if you need me," Hank said. "Apparently, you can also fetch me in your plane, whatever model you end up with. But I'm not cut out to be an X-Man."
"We are not calling it the X-Men," Jean said.
"So you think," Hank said.
"You'd make a better hero than I would," Jean said.
"I'm not so sure about that," Hank said. He hesitated, and then handed her an envelope from his jacket pocket.
Jean weighed it in her hand. "What's this?"
"Rumors," Hank said. "About some government-funded medical studies that may not be entirely on the up and up."
"Rumors?"
Hank shrugged. "It may just be the sort of conspiracy theory indulged in by computer aficionados who don't get out much. But the name Stryker does keep coming up."
"Stryker," Jean said. "Jason's father?"
"What ever happened to Jason, Jean?"
"I don't ..." Hank started to walk down the hall toward the garage, and Jean followed him. "I don't know. I suppose the professor knows."
"You might ask him," Hank said.
"Hank, I believe in what the professor and Scott are doing. I really do."
"You're hiding," Hank said. "I don't want to hide what I am."
"Maybe we can do more good by hiding some of the time."
"Maybe," Hank said. "And if someone hits me over the head with a baseball bat for championing the mutant cause, I will certainly come to you for stitches."
"I treat mutants," Jean said, smiling crookedly. "Cheap."
Scott came to bed some time after Jean abandoned the last of the party, which by that point consisted of Warren and Scott telling old school stories while Candy sprawled on the couch with her feet propped up in Warren's lap, his wing draped over her legs like a blanket, which seemed to answer the question of whether she knew Warren was a mutant. Jean turned over as Scott slipped into bed, pillowing her head on his cool arm and settling back to sleep.
She often had odd dreams in Westchester, so she wasn't too surprised to see Charles and Scott on the basketball court, Charles running down the length of the court to dunk the ball into the basket.
"You were never that good," Scott said.
Charles shrugged and scooped up the ball. "I still can't play the piano, either, even though the doctors distinctly promised --"
"That's an old joke," Scott said. His sunglasses were pushed up on his forehead, and he brushed sweat out of his eyes.
"I'm not a young man." Charles tossed the ball to Scott, who caught it and looked at it hesitantly.
"This isn't my best game."
"It should be," Charles said. "You're a natural."
"I really like the plans."
"I gathered as much," Charles said, with a meaningful nod at the basketball hoop. Scott shot from the three-point line, and frowned as the ball bounced off the rim.
"Jean's right, though. It's all a little ..."
"Like a pulp science fiction novel?"
"Pretty much," Scott said. He caught the ball and tossed it back to Charles, who made another effortless basket.
"It is a story," Charles said. "It's our story." He smiled wryly. "Wouldn't you rather it be the sort of story where the heroes win in the end?"
"Shouldn't it be real life?"
"We need a dream," Charles said. "Everyone needs a dream."
"I've always believed in your dream. That mutants and humans can learn to live together in peace --"
"I'm a telepath. I know what you dream about."
"Those are nightmares."
"They're the dreams you have. You and hundreds of young mutants all over the world. Politics and philosophy have their place, but that's not all they need." Charles handed him the ball, and Scott took it slowly. "They need heroes."
Jean woke up and propped up on one elbow. Scott was sleeping soundly, his head tucked so that his visor wouldn't press painfully against the side of his face. She slipped out of bed without waking him and out into the hall.
She went downstairs, feeling like a teenager again. The professor's room had been just down the hall, then. Even so, it seemed terribly familiar, slipping down the stairs in the dark, her hand just brushing the handrail.
There was a light on in the professor's room when she got to the door, and she opened it without knocking, knowing he knew she was there.
"Jean?" Charles asked softly. He was sitting by the window, the drapes open; with the lamp on, she could only faintly see the dark shapes of the trees through her own reflection. He looked older than he had in the dream, she thought, but more real.
"We don't have a basketball court," she said, and Charles looked at her very seriously; she could tell he was hiding a smile.
"Not yet."
She laughed, and then grew serious. "I didn't ever think you'd be saying that you wanted us to fight. I'm not entirely sure how to deal with you approving of us getting into trouble."
"I didn't ever want you to have to fight," Charles said. "I still hope that you'll see things get better in your lifetime. Maybe even in a few years. But for now --"
"For now, someone has to help these kids," Jean said. "And if that means fighting for them, we'll do it."
Charles looked up at her. "You know, I always hoped that you would have a life that wasn't defined by your differences. College, a career, a family ..."
"And a white picket fence?" Jean shook her head. "I've been to college. I have a career. I have a family. Here."
"You can't call this a normal life."
"That's okay," Jean said. "You gave me the choice." She smiled ruefully. "I think I got more choices than you did."
Charles shook his head. "I had choices. I chose to do this." He looked up at her seriously. "There are things I regret, but I have never regretted the school, or you."
"I -- good." She took a deep breath. "I've always wanted you to be proud of me."
I am, Charles thought.
Jean blinked back tears. "I'm being maudlin," she said. "Blame it on the champagne."
"Champagne is a useful scapegoat for all ills," Charles said. "I should remember that."
"You should," Jean said. There was something nagging that she felt she ought to say, and suddenly she remembered what it was. She hesitated, not at all sure whether she wanted to break the mood by bringing it up.
"You're wondering what happened to Jason Stryker," Charles said.
"Hank just ... brought it up," Jean said.
"I can't find him with Cerebro anymore. I sincerely hope at this point that he simply has nothing to say to me, and has learned how to use his powers to prevent me from looking over his shoulder. But, yes, it's very likely that he's dead."
"I'm sorry," Jean said after a minute. Charles's eyes flickered up to her in surprise. "I know you did everything you could."
"I wish I were so sure."
"I'm sure," Jean said. And I'll do whatever it takes to make it never happen again.
*****
In March, an Alabama judge ruled that mutants were not human beings and therefore not entitled to the protections of the Constitution. The case was overturned by the appeals court, but three days before the appeal, the original judge was found dead in his house, his neck neatly broken, all doors and windows still tidily locked. Erik took Raven to Mexico for six weeks, until some of the fuss died down.
They stayed in a beach house that Raven liked but felt a bit vulnerable in, with its wide windows overlooking the beach road; he found her sketching out designs in a thoughtful way on a bit of newspaper, and smiled. The bars stayed open late, and both of them went out for a couple of evenings alone, just to stretch a bit.
Erik was making his way back to the cottage fairly early one of those nights when he heard the shouting from a back alley; Spanish was not one of his languages, but "mutante" and "monstruo" needed little translation. He found a pack of teenagers kicking a skinny, dark-skinned child curled up in a hissing ball behind the partial shelter of a dumpster; when he sent them flying, the boy spat an evil-smelling fluid, and one of the teenagers screamed as it began to eat through the denim of his pants.
"Is this what you wanted?" Erik said, knowing they probably didn't understand and not particularly caring if they did. "A real, live mutant to play with?" He smiled, and made short work of them. Most of them he thought were unconscious, not dead, which was for the best; they'd tell the tale.
The child was behind the dumpster again, he realized. "Come out," he said, hoping the tone of voice would convey some meaning even if the words didn't. "You're among friends now."
The boy came out into the light hesitantly, poised to run, or perhaps to spit at Erik. In the light, he could see that the gleam of his skin was an acid gold, not merely tan. He might have been fourteen or fifteen, sixteen at most, his eyes flicking darkly to follow Erik as he moved.
"Welcome to the Brotherhood of Mutants," Erik said. The boy seemed to know enough English to smile.
He was not a particularly pleasant child, but Erik didn't expect him to be. He seemed grateful enough when they managed to smuggle him into the U.S., and made himself useful. Raven took what seemed to be almost a maternal interest in him, rather to Victor's confusion. They bought a cottage on the beach near the island to make it easier to come and go without notice, and stayed there for most of the summer; Erik told Raven he was thinking of taking up fishing.
He made the drive to Boston more than once in the fall, alone in the car with the radio playing and a cigarette burning itself out in the ashtray beside him. He parked in the familiar neighborhood where he still tried not to linger on the streets and straightened his hat. It had the feel of a disguise, now, and the heavy cashmere sleeves of the coat felt odd on his wrists.
A stack of books was threatening to slip from his grasp, and he balanced their weight as well as he could and fumbled unconvincingly at the door before letting it swing open. He hoped a bit too late it hadn't been locked. There was a girl sitting in Brendan's living room with a psychology textbook propped up on her knees, and the sound of the dishwasher running in the kitchen.
"Toni?" he guessed, although she didn't have the look of a dancer, even a former one. He didn't attempt to keep track.
"Anna," the girl said. "I'm Mark's sister. He's on the night shift now, so I've been looking in after class in the afternoons."
Erik wasn't entirely sure who Mark was -- an ex-boyfriend, he suspected, although one of the dancers from Brendan's company was also possible. "Should I leave these? I won't ask you to wake him."
"I don't know if he's really asleep," she said. "I can go see ..."
"I'll see," Erik said. He put on his most charming smile and cracked open the door to the bedroom, books once again assembled under his arm. "Hello, Brendan."
"Hello, Erik," Brendan said, sitting up a bit. "So what's it like being a notorious criminal?"
"Hardly notorious," Erik said. "Where can I put these?"
"Anywhere. Someone will move them, anyway. They do," Brendan said.
Erik sat on the foot of the bed, trying not to look like he was trying not to jostle it. "You may not want a notorious criminal visiting."
"What are they going to do, arrest me? That would make them look good, I'm sure. Persecuting the dying is not good public relations."
Erik managed a laugh. "This seems a bit more comfortable than prison, though"
"It's fine," Brendan said. He closed his eyes.
Erik looked down at the topmost book. He moved it very gently to the bed, in reach of Brendan's hand. "Shall I sit here a while?"
"Just a while," Brendan said. "I'll fall asleep."
"That's quite all right," Erik said, and closed his eyes.
*****
Jean crawled out of bed, glancing blearily at the clock. It was three a.m., but she could feel Charles's urgency, and it sped her own motions. Scott was already struggling into the black leather uniform he'd insisted on keeping in the bedroom, although Jean thought that was a little dubious. She pulled on her own as quickly as humanly possible, although black leather was not a forgiving material.
A door was already opening down the hall when they came out. Ororo glanced out into the corridor, looking hesitant. "Are we really going to wear these out --"
"Yep," Scott said. "Because we haven't got time to change now."
"Okay," Ororo said, with a long outdrawn breath. "Here we go."
The child was somewhere in the country, and for a minute Jean indulged in the unfair thought that Ororo had been itching for any opportunity to be able to use the plane. She had to admit it got them there faster, though, and the child's fear she could feel crawling through Charles's mind to hers made her ashamed of the suspicion.
Ororo brought the plane down in the closest thing to an airfield they had, a bare stretch of country road. It was not particularly unnoticeable, Jean thought, but then it was the dead of night. They moved quickly across the field.
"The kid's in the barn," Jean said. "Her father locked her in."
"Oh, not the barn," Scott said.
Jean nodded curiously, and then followed his gaze. The barn window cast odd, flickering shadows across the field, and in her mind she could suddenly smell smoke and feel the rising heat.
"What assholes," Jean said.
Scott broke into a run, and Jean followed, trying to keep up with his longer strides. Overhead, clouds began gathering. The air prickled Jean's skin, like the thickening of the air before a storm.
Scott flung himself at the wall of the barn and looked up at its roof appraisingly. Jean tugged at the door, which bore a thick and apparently new padlock holding together a length of rusted chain. It didn't give.
"I don't want to knock the whole thing down on the kid," Scott said. He frowned at the door. "If I just take the lock off --"
"Let me do it," Jean said. It was old habit, easy as playing games with paper clips and pencils. For a moment, she could see the padlock opening and closing in Dr. Lehnsherr's hand, his chalk-dry voice saying "Your turn, now."
The lock popped open, and the chain slithered to the ground. Scott raised his eyebrows in admiration, and then jerked the door open. "Hey, kid! Come on out!"
"We're here to rescue you," Jean murmured, and for the first time, she felt like a hero.
*****
Erik had no patience for funerals; he left Brendan's when Father Cassidy began talking from the pulpit about the inspiration to continue all kinds of political struggle nonviolently. Raven rolled her eyes and made as if to come with him, but he shrugged her off, and she stayed where she was, looking up, her hands neatly folded in her lap like the good Catholic girl she might once have been.
No one paid any attention to Erik as he walked. The crowds crawled past about their business, gray and colorless, essentially meaningless. He looked past them, through them; they were nothing at all to do with him.
He only looked down, a bit surprised, when he found himself in the cemetery; he should have known it, should at least have felt the iron gates. He stared down at the new headstone, blindingly white, stained at the base by upthrown dirt.
It didn't matter, he told himself, but he rested one hand on the cool marble, bracing himself. There was so much work to be done.
And only so much time in which to do it. He stooped to pick up a stone, and then put it back down, reaching into his pocket instead.
"Erik?" Raven asked from a few meters away. She had shed her serious black coat for a skin-tight dress and soft fur coat, her hair platinum blond. He nodded appreciatively. It suited her better.
"Magneto, my dear," he said. Behind him Erik Lehnsherr's wallet lay where he had left it on the stone.
"My hero," Raven said, and slipped her arm through his.