Rogue most notably did not make a sound like the Blackbird, or any other sort of aircraft with an engine. But Joseph didn't need noise to sense her passing overhead. He was attuned to the magnetism of the planet itself. Rogue's moving through the sky over his head prickled along his senses like an ice cube down his back or a gentle patter of summer rain on his face. That was to say nothing of the effect she had on him from a perfectly mundane level. He watched the play of the twilight on her auburn hair, and sighed. Rogue gave no sign of having even noticed he was watching. The men from Brewster Construction, on the other hand, were as vociferous about it as ever.
"Woo-hoo! Evenin', Stripe!"
"An' people wonder why we're always here so early!"
"Night, boys!" Rogue called back, then veered off to the south.
Joseph was about to lift into the air after her, and ask her if she was
ready to talk yet - but she kicked in the afterburners and sped off, just
under the speed of sound by the feel of it against his senses. He sighed,
and went back to his concentration exercises. If I follow her, I am not
giving her enough space. If I ask her to talk, I'm crowding her. He
found himself smiling. Thomas, it must be love if I'm willing to
be this patient. I have - a history of being a bit more impatient.
The medical supplies had all needed to be delivered. When they got back to the parking facility, the manager had - with sufficient trepidation that Cecelia expected to see a wet spot on the crotch of his pants - informed them that Dr. McCoy's Integra had been stolen. Cecelia had nearly cold-cocked the middle aged man on general principles. "One of these morons you have working for you left the keys in the ignition and some other moron stole it?!" Her Puerto Rican accent was beginning to creep into her voice.
Hank put a hand on Cecelia's shoulder. "It's all right, Cecelia." He seemed to realize what he was doing and removed his hand as if Cecelia had activated her personal force-field between them. "It was only a '94 anyway. We could always go shopping for another car. There are a number of dealerships in the 20s. A Saturn, this time, perhaps?"
"You're kidding, right?" Cecelia remarked. "What was all that about how paltry your income is?" She glowered at McCoy who hunched under trenchcoat and fedora.
"All right, all right - it's not that paltry." Hank gave a gust of a beleaguered sigh in response to her stony stare. "I could trade upon my tenure with the Avengers and have Jarvis loan me something if that is preferable to milady's sensibilities?" His eyes twinkled. He tried not to burst into laughter at Cecelia's dumbfounded expression. Come come, Henry old boy, you know very well she has not the exigency of files and must learn the history of Xavier's Finest as we shoot off at the mouth about it.
"You were an Avenger?! Shiiiiiiiit." Cecelia stared blankly at Hank. "Well, okay, I suppose that'll do just fine." You suppose that'll do just fine? God, Cecelia. She watched him walk away to the corner for the payphone, then followed, her duffel bag full of the supplies she'd chosen to carry along, and meant to stow in the Integra's trunk.
Cecelia observed Hank in his fedora and trenchcoat; they were all beautifully tailored. Must be a necessity - his physique is rather - unusual, Cecelia mused. When he hung up the phone, his smile was returning. "So - did you get the car?"
"Jarvis is working on it," Hank explained. "The team was disbanded after the Heroes vanished fighting Onslaught." A pain and sorrow filled Hank's eyes at this explanation. "He says it will take him some time to get a car out of storage, but it is easily achievable. In the meantime, shall we have lunch? I know an excellent place in Little Italy."
To Cecelia's surprise, he headed for the subway rather than waiting to hail a cab. Oh, damn. Cabs don't stop for muties even if they're celebrated physicians, do they? And here I was lamenting losing my job at O-MOM...and that the "school" upstate didn't seem to be in much of a teaching mode. I've really been a bitch on wheels, haven't I? Her own face grew grim at that reminder of how an accident of birth had made her an outsider in a world she'd been living comfortably in up until a few scant weeks ago. Resolute, she trotted up alongside Hank and walked down into the subway with him.
"Do you think we could hit my place before we do lunch - since we're kind of stranded until your Jarvis gets the car?" Cecelia asked, voice raised over the rhythmic staccato clatter of the subway.
Hank cocked his head at her; Cecelia found herself reminded of a loyal Irish Setter - if they came in blue. "Of course, Cecelia. I am at your disposal."
With that, they switched trains, and took the 1 up to the Bronx. If the run-down condition of the neighborhood disturbed Hank, he at least had the grace to not let it show. Cecelia didn't look up at him and check McCoy's expression; she was not prepared to see that his gracious silence was not equally mirrored by his face. They walked up Fordham Road, past street vendors, and papaya stands. Finally, they arrived at her building in the South Bronx. Cecelia sighed; she had lived within viewing distance of Our Mother of Mercy Hospital, affectionately abbreviated O-MOM.
"Elevator's busted," Cecelia informed Hank, her tone indicated it had been out of service for an inordinately long time.
Hank merely nodded and took the stairs six at a time, bounding athletically after Cecelia. "Is that red rice and beans I smell? I may have to trouble your neighbours for the recipe." He said it in a tone indicating he was joking, prepared inwardly for Cecelia to turn on him and a rage and inform him, in no uncertain terms, that he would do no such thing. But she only gave a brief snort and continued up the stairs - all the way to the eighth floor. He dropped all attempts to keep the mood light, and crouched beside Cecelia as she turned the key to open the front door.
Cecelia felt like she had just contracted a sudden case of vertigo. The apartment was - a mess. She wasn't the most pristine housekeeper, but the apartment hadn't been anywhere near this disheveled. Ransacked. Vandalized. She gasped and took a step inside, leaning against the wall. "Oh, God..." she whispered. "Hank..."
Hank couldn't determine just by giving the place the once-over who had been responsible, but he could guess. "Cecelia, is there anything you have to have out of here? Anything entirely irreplaceable? If not, we can just turn around and go. Cecelia?"
She had already strode into the living room and was perusing the damage. "Oh, mierda! My Tito Puente records!" Broken shards of classic samba lay at her feet. She glanced over to where a potted cactus lay on the floor in a pile of dirt and the remains of the clay pot. She bit her lip, turning her head this way and that. Her braids flew to obscure her face. "Damn. Damn.... DAMN!" Before Hank could stop her, Cecelia had stormed into the bedroom, leaving a trail of Spanish invective behind her. Hank could do nothing but follow.
The bedroom was worse than the living room. The window was broken, glass strewn before it on the floor. Her calico curtains flapped forlornly in the cold breeze. Her bed had been slit open, and the contents laid out all over the room. Her clothing was slashed and strewn about her closet. The floor was littered with broken glass. And worst of all - someone had scrawled GET OUT MUTIE in red spray paint across the wall over the bed. Hank forced down an irrational surge of anger, crouching beside Cecelia, who knelt amongst the broken bits of her keepsakes.
"Dammit," Cecelia croaked, voice shaking as she fought tears. "You told me. You warned me. I wanted to believe the people in this neighborhood were better than this. I wanted to believe what I'd done was more important than the damn mutation!" She balled her fists, and punched the nearest wall. There was a flicker of translucent blue as her hand impacted the wall; her natural force field activating to prevent her from hurting herself. "Dammit, Hank - what did I do to deserve this?!"
"Nothing, Cecelia," Hank replied quietly, offering her his handkerchief. "Nothing more than any of us have done." To his surprise, Cecelia took the handkerchief, and pressed her face against his chest, weeping silently. He cupped the back of her head in one hand, enveloping her slight form in as protective an embrace as he could muster. "For what it's worth - I'm sorry. I had hoped to be wrong." He held her like that for a moment, letting her collect herself.
Cecelia stood after a few long moments, pulling away. "thanks, McCoy," she said brusquely, and stood. "Let's see if there's anything still salvageable and get the hell out of here." Methodically, with McCoy's eyes, full of concern, watching her - Reyes sorted through the wreckage of her belongings. She hadn't permitted herself to cry when a patient had turned into a Sentinel and tried to kill her. She hadn't shed a tear when she had fought beside Iceman and Marrow until they'd reached the relative safety of the mansion. She hadn't even cried when the doctors at O-MOM had made cruel jokes and shunned her. But now, here she was, sniffling like a damned baby. "Shit. My diploma from med school." It was scored in places from broken glass - the frame had been smashed.
I wasn't gonna fuckin' cry! she berated herself. After all I've been through, a little thing like this shouldn't phase me - but this was my place, my stuff - and ...I guess even I have a breaking point, much as I hate to admit it. "Bastards didn't even steal anything," she muttered. "Everything's here - just ruined." She sighed; her high school yearbook had also been sprayed with the big red M for 'Mutie.' "No use cryin'." She packed up what few salvageable items of clothing she could and turned to McCoy. "Let's get the hell out of here."
To his credit, McCoy remained silent after his original condolence. He also showed the good sense to not insult her by offering to carry her bags. He only took the ones that she'd carried from the medical supply store. Is it my imagination, or is he in some kind of guard stance? McCoy relaxed only after they were out the door with it closed and locked behind them. Cecelia paused to scribble a note to the super.
Dear Juan: I won't be back. Here's a check for my last month's rent, plus the next two to cover the damage. - CR.
They walked together down the stairs. "Now I could use a bite to eat," Cecelia said stonily. "We still on for Italian?"
"Of a certainty, my dear Dr. Reyes," Hank replied soberly.
Italian turned out to be La Tratoria Italiana - a tiny little dimly lit hole in the wall just off Central Park West. Although Cecelia was still in her modest clothing, the Maitre'D made not a sound. "Mr. McCoy. Your usual table?" he asked, casting an appreciative glance at Cecelia despite her less-than-elegant attire.
"Please, Gino," Henry replied, smiling. He held the seat for Cecelia so she could sit. She regarded him with a combination of wariness and confusion. "Sorry. You will have to take it up with my mother. Mrs. McCoy raised me right, and she'd tan my hide if I was anything but a perfect gentleman." Cecelia smiled at him, although it was a guarded smile.
He opened his menu and donned a pair of square-framed glasses in order to read. He smiled indulgently at Cecelia's expression. "Oh, come now, you've seen me in these before." She apparently hadn't been paying attention when they were discussing the Legacy virus a few days back. He didn't mind; the fact that she was gawking presently meant she was paying attention now.
Lunch proceeded smoothly. Cecelia had to admit McCoy had great taste in restaurants. This place was swank, without being snobby. She wasn't the only person dressed casual, although the food was served on fine china, and the drinks in real crystal glasses. She even let Hank talk her into a glass of red wine to go with her Shrimp Fra Diavolo. Hank himself drank Dr. Pepper with his fusilli a la carbonara, since he planned to drive the car once they got it from Jarvis. "This place is fantastic, McCoy. Thanks." She hated to think of the bill; but she also had the sense not to insult him by offering to split it. It had been a nice gesture, and she wouldn't let her pride sully it.
Hank narrowed his eyes at the glasses on the table. Two water glasses, a wine glass, and his glass of Dr. Pepper... hmmm ... He turned to the table immediately to his right and asked, "Pardon me, but if you are done with your water glasses?"
Bemused, the teenagers at the next table turned their glasses over to him. Hank turned a dazzling smile on Cecelia, and asked her, in solemn tones, "Name your favourite song?" She balked; as he expected. "Hmm, Not talking, are ya?" He affected Edward G. Robinson's froglike voice. "Well, I'm gonna play dese here glasses for ya anyway, see? Yeah, yeah."
Blue fingers dipped into clear water, then found the rims of the glasses. The crystal sang at his touch, and he cocked his head. "Such a lovely round sound," Hank gushed, careful to roll his Rs. "Don't you agree?" He continued to look quite serious, as did Cecelia. He was just being silly at the warehouse, but she needed the laugh now, McCoy had concluded. "I suppose I could play Enery The Eighth if you don't tell me what your favourite is." Still Cecelia resisted. Hank gave a put-upon sigh and began to play 'Mary Had a Little Lamb' on the rims of the glasses.
Cecelia winced. Hank shrugged and changed to the "Ma Namma Na" song so popular from Sesame Street. The teenagers at the next table hooted their appreciation. "I can keep this up all day, you know."
"You're determined to humiliate me," Cecelia growled, but without much conviction.
"That's absolutely correct," Hank said in the most innocent voice. He changed to the theme from the Jetsons. By this time, other tables had contributed their water glasses as well. Cecelia resisted through the theme to Gilligan's Island, but when Hank began the opening bars to 'The Lion Sleeps Tonight' she gave in.
"All right, all right! My favourite song is the one from 'Dances With Wolves' where Dances and Stands With A Fist are riding through the mountains with the Indians." Cecelia's smile was as vicious as it was sweet. Yeah, I'd like to see you play that, McCoy. That was an elaborately orchestrated number. It was, quite truthfully, one of her favourites - but since Hank had asked, putting her on the spot, she decided to make him pay.
Hank lowered his brows thoughtfully. "A complex and intelligent choice, Dr. Reyes, upon which I commend you." He wrinkled his nose. "I've heard that a time or two...it'll be difficult " He tentatively fingered a glass and the first note sang out clear. "...I believe I can do that." He cracked his fingers, eliciting winces from onlookers. Then, Hank fingered another glass, and nodded. His hands were unfaltering after that.
It was sort of thin without the orchestration behind it, but he had found the tune and was playing it for her. Cecelia stopped, with the spoonful of spumoni halfway to her lips. "Who do you think you are, Buckaroo Banzai?" she demanded with no true anger in her voice. Various heads lifted, curious and impressed. No one even so much as batted an eye that a blue, furry mutant was the one producing the music.
"No, actually I can't play the coronet," Hank admitted, ducking his head modestly as the crowd burst into applause for the second time that day. "Haven't got the lip for it. One too many delusional megalomaniacs kicking me in the teeth." His teeth were perfect; Cecelia wasn't sure if he was gently pulling her leg. She decided not to ask.
Hank paid the bill and excused himself. "A brief stop at the little scientists room, and we'll be on our way when you're ready." He gave Cecelia a smile, then turned for the rest rooms. To Hank's surprise, he found a pair of cold blue eyes meeting his just before he cleared the alcove to return to the table. Attached to those eyes was a beautiful, photogenic face, surrounded by a cascade of lush black hair. "Why hello...Trish."
Trish Tilby's voice was conversationally cordial. She was a newscaster; of course it was - she had broken the story of the Legacy Virus in those same dulcet tones. Hank had known her, loved her - he detected the icy note to her voice.
"New ...acquaintance?" Trish asked, eyes flicking to Cecelia as she finished her dessert. Her tone demanded an explanation, though her face was neutral. "You haven't played the glasses in quite some time."
"New member of the school," Hank explained smoothly, voice low. "Dr. Cecelia Reyes, late of Our Mother of Mercy Hospital, the Bronx. She is also a mutant with a personal force field. She came to New York with me to help me restock the mansion. She had her house ransacked just for being a mutant and needed a bit of a lift to her spirits. Have I answered all your inquiries satisfactorily?" His face was mild too, but he could not quite keep his emotions out of his voice as much as he would wish. I don't know her birthdate, favourite colour, blood type or favourite perfume yet. With time, and luck - I'll find out. And as for you, Trish? I offered you my heart, and you refused.
"I see," Trish said, and this time the sadness was in her voice. "She's very pretty." She sighed. "Darn it all, Blue - you sure bounced back quickly."
"I may be a hopeless romantic, Trish, but I am also a man of intelligence - or so I like to consider myself. You told me there was no chance for us."
Trish sighed. "I didn't say that in so many words - but I guess it's what I meant." She smiled sadly. "She better be good to you, Dr. McCoy, or force-field or no forcefield, she'll have Trish Tilby to reckon with." With that, Trish kissed Hank on the cheek and vanished into the ladies room.
Hank stood for several seconds after Trish had departed, nonplussed. He gathered his wits again, and finally returned to Cecelia's side. "Ready?" When she nodded, he offered his arm to her. She took it and they exited together.
They took a cab the rest of the way uptown to Avengers Mansion. True to his word, Jarvis had a loaner ready for Hank's use. After the two men exchanged some cordial and polite words, Hank held open the door of a classic Mustang ragtop. It was silver on the outside, red on the inside, and kept lovingly in mint condition. "One of Janet's," Hank explained as he popped their bags in the back seat. "And Hawkeye and Tony Stark keep..." he winced, amended, "...kept them running for her. The Winsome Wasp has a whole fleet of these. I'll drive it back in a few days. Shall we away?"
Cecelia wordlessly buckled her seat belt and closed her eyes. This time, though, McCoy did not attempt to engage her in conversation. He left Cecelia alone with her thoughts. Finally, Cecelia broke the silence. "McCoy?"
"Yes?"
"Thanks....for a wonderful time." And to her surprise, Cecelia found the words were sincere.
For all that the condo was in the most squalid section of East LA, Guido's housekeeping was impeccable. "Brigitte insists," he explained sheepishly as he ducked and turned sideways to enter the doorway. "C'mon in, make yourselves ta home. I don't have all the tech Lila does, so you're going to have to heat up the pop tarts in the toaster, and the coffee in the microwave. Me, I'm going in the back to suit up, and see if I can get in touch with any of our old, more - aggressive Gee-Cee buddies." With that, Guido vanished.
Jamie flopped on the sofa, and closed his eyes. Mickey stood beside the sofa. "You want anything out of the kitchen? Cloning yourself must be hungry work. Me, I'm starved anyway."
"Yeah, that'd be good, thanks," Jamie replied. His voice sounded better and Mickey felt a weight lift from her heart. She had hated to think it had been her fault he was chorusing his words. "Whatever's not too much trouble."
Mickey went to the kitchen and rummaged about. "I can make spaghetti and meatballs," she called. "If we've got 45 minutes?"
"Depends on how long Guido takes getting ahold of someone," Jamie called back. "Sounds good to me. We still gotta see if any of Lila's roadies make it here to the safehouse."
Twenty minutes later, Mickey had the meatballs in a pan of olive oil, set to sautee. The spaghetti was ready to go into the boiling water as soon as the meatballs went into the sauce. The sauce, rich, red, and fragrant, was burbling away cheerfully in the saucepan. She came out with a long-stemmed wooden spoon and held it to Jamie's lips. "Taste drive. Any word from Guido or the others yet?"
Jamie raised both brows and blushed, but accepted the spoonful of sauce. "Mmm - and you did that with whatever was in Guido's kitchen? I'm impressed. That's really good." He sobered. "Guido's been quiet as a church mouse, and nobody else has showed. I'm getting worried."
As if on cue, a stream of invective, in rich and booming Italian, streamed out of Guido's bedroom. Mickey and Jamie exchanged a look, then got up to run together to the doorway. "What? What is it?"
Guido cradled his head in his hands. "I been so busy running Lila's act, I haven't been payin' attention to the friggin' news is what it is," he groaned. "Operation Zero Tolerance has scattered the mutant constituent of the X-Men to the four winds. X-Factor is missing, presumed d-dead..." his voice broke on that word, but he continued, "Alex is allegedly hangin' with some twisted alternate dimension version of Hank McCoy, an' the X-Men's regular number has been disconnected! I got no friggin' clue where the X-Force kids are, an'...DAGNABBIT! " He punched the wall, and the whole room shook. "This is bad, kids. This is really, really bad."
Jamie clasped his best friend's shoulders. "Don't give up, Guidster," he suggested. "If we have to, we'll resort to flying out of LAX to Washington or New York."
Mickey nodded, but paled as Guido cut Jamie off. "You don't get it, do you, Jamie? Lila's a teleporter. If she hasn't called us -" he gestured at the unblinking red light of his answering machine. "...If she hasn't showed up somewhere, she is in real trouble." He removed his goggle-glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Jamie, there's only two ways to stop Lila from teleportin', and neither one is what I'd call a walk in the friggin' park. We may not have time to get across country on a friggin' commercial flight!" He seemed to realize his voice was rattling the windows. With an effort, Guido subsided.
"Uhm," Mickey ventured softly, from the doorway. She felt like an intruder. "I know where two of the X-Men are..." Guido and Jamie turned to her, faces hopeful and expectant. I just have no idea how to get to them without Lila... "Lila stuck leBeau and the white-haired weather woman, Storm, up on her Dyson sphere."
Guido put both huge hands around Mickey's tiny waist and tossed her into the air, much the way people usually did with toddlers. "Way to go, Mickey!"
"This is...good?" Mickey asked, giggling in spite of herself.
"It's a start," Guido countered, setting Mickey down again. "I can contact the Dyson from here...even if we can't get them down from up there."
The doorbell rang. Once. Then twice more in rapid succession. There was a pause. Guido cocked his head, cupping a hand beside his ear. The sequence repeated, adding a triple-ring. "Our luck may be changing," he said, striding toward the door. "Mickey, you wanna come with me? If it turns out to be the bad guys, we may need that freeze-tag power of yours to get our buns out of here."
Mickey nodded, and followed Guido, flattening against the wall beside the door, so as to time-freeze anyone who came in at Guido's word. The door opened.
"You!" Guido and Jamie chorused, wide-eyed and drop-jawed.
"Me," said the tall, bedraggled redhead whose LILA TOUR CREW T-shirt was a tattered mess that clung to his chest. "Hello, Mickey. Pleasure to see you again." The image inducer on his watch sputtered and fizzled. He flickered back to his Kymellian appearance briefly before it shimmered back to his human disguise.
"Hi, Ferris," Mickey grinned, as the three guys shared an embrace.
Or