Twilight Yet to Come

Some people would consider me fortunate because I found a great love twice in my life... Even though I lost them both in violent deaths, these people are ready with the old saw 'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. That's how Pyro tried to console me. I snorted that writing all those airport bookshop novels must have addled his brain.

He took it in good humor, telling me it was a good sign, one that showed how much I had already progressed despairing grief to random snarkiness.

St. John is a good friend. One of the few good friends I have, I must add. We've been together on and off for close to two decades now, going back to when I found the second so-called Brotherhood of Evil Mutants. In those days, when no one knew that Raven Darkh"lme, assistant director of D.A.R.P.A., and St. John Allerdyce, writer of best-selling novels, were secretly mutant terrorists, I lived with the first great love of my life, Irene Adler. Irene was blessed and cursed with the inborn ability to look into the future and to gauge probabilities, an ability that had led her to me years before.

Both Irene and I had lived eventful lives before we met, and we both thought we had experienced too much to still believe in the kind of love we then discovered together. Irene Adler shared our lives in difficult times. We tried to shape the course of events by judiciously applied acts of subterfuge and violence. Unfortunately Irene's powers were not 100 percent accurate – she dealt in probabilities, not certainties, after all – and so on a few occasions our actions made things worse instead of better. Pyro was one of the mutants I recruited to our group on Irene's advice, but back then I saw him only as an underling. My emotional needs were entirely fulfilled in the cozy little home Irene – lover and best friend all in one – had set up with me.

We had a son together – my shape-shifting powers enable me to become a fully-functioning male when I want to – but to save Kurt from dangers she foresaw we reluctantly gave him away. Later we adopted a daughter, Rogue, who also joined our 'Brotherhood' as soon as she declared herself old enough.

But our happiness did not last. Rogue found herself unable to control her power to absorb the powers, abilities and memories of anyone she touched. In addition to that she got into deep trouble after she permanently absorbed the powers and memories of one of my old foes, Carol Danvers alias Ms. Marvel. That accident eventually drove her away from us, for Irene and I were unable to help her gain control over her power or to alleviate the problems caused by the Ms. Marvel persona lurking in her subconscious. Rogue's departure to join the X-Men was a hard blow. Within a year I decided on a new course of action and put myself and my group at the U.S. government's disposal in return for a conditional amnesty. We called ourself Freedom Force, a much catchier name, if I may say so, than that of the group of which I am currently a member, X-Factor. However, while the change took us out of the police and intelligence agencies' firing lines, our lives were no less filled with risk than they had been before. The main difference was that we now put our lives on line for on occasions we did not choose, at the behest of bureaucrats in Washington.

And soon our luck ran out. Irene Adler was killed in action and there was nothing I could do to save her. She had foreseen that one of the two of us was going to die on that mission, and characteristically she secretly decided it was going to be her, giving me no say in the matter and not even a chance to say good-bye.

It was as if my life ended that day, 16 September, 1993. I found myself alone in the world – Rogue had apparently been killed fighting alongside her new teammates, and Pyro, who by then had become a friend, disappeared in the course of another disastrous mission. For a while one of the few things that kept me going was my determination to exact retribution on the Shadow King, the discorporate entity responsible for Irene's death. But, as Irene had wished, I slowly returned to the company of the living and found someone new to love.

To the surprise of both parties concerned, that turned out to be Valerie Cooper, the government overseer of Freedom Force and later X-Factor. At our first meeting I had not been overly impressed by her, at the time she was working with Senator Robert Kelly. She was efficient and ambitious, I thought, but most importantly the young career bureaucrat (she had just turned 30) was a mutiphobe intent on preparing the ground for Kelly's mutant registration schemes. Over the years, she first was an obstacle to my plans, later an ally of convenience, but her own attitudes changed and slowly and almost imperceptively she won first my respect and then my love. We moved together and once again I was happy. Valerie gave birth to our two lovely daughters (lovely by our standards, not those of society in general) whom we named Irene and Hope. And we set up our house in Georgetown, next to X-Factor HQ.

At the same time I began to mend bridges with two of my children. Kurt finally learned who his parents were, and although he did not warm to me entirely, we became close enough to take an interest in each other's lives, and he did not mind when I fell into the role of grandmother after the birth of his son Errol in 1998. Rogue meanwhile became involved with Magneto, the former leader of the first Brotherhood of Evil Mutants, and started to live with him, which put Valerie and me in the position of parents-in-uncommon-law to the Master of Magnetism. Magnus does not at all feel comfortable in crowds, so he took some time to adjust to the new life after his reformation, not just with Rogue's family, but also with his own children, Quicksilver and the Scarlet Witch, and their families.

Val Cooper was rather different to live with than Irene Adler. Where Irene had possessed seemingly unlimited patience and kept silent, Val would get angry at me and bawl me out. The new relationship was a lot more stormy, but also more passionate, at least in the physical sense. I like to think the love between Val and me was as strong as that between Irene and me, but the mix of the different aspects of that love was different...

And then Valerie, thanks to her irrepressible urge to accompany her teams into the field despite the lack of superpowers of her own, got herself killed. Luckily Rogue happened to be at hand on that mission and was able to save Val after a fashion by absorbing her memories permanently. That gave me the idea that at one point it would be possible to provide Valerie with a new body, just as Charles Xavier had acquired his new one, by cloning. So I took care to collect sufficient cell samples before we buried her old body.

It was only fair that Moira MacTaggert would help me to bring about my ends: The first love of my life had been killed on MacTaggert's island, it would be fitting if the second one would be returned to life in a body of her own in the same place. It was comparatively easy to get MacTaggert to help me. She has very romantic ideas about what being a laird and clan chief entails (if I had read Sir Walter Scott, I could say how much of her notions she got from him), so the buttons I had to press were obvious. Not to mention that she owed me this – Irene Adler had died defending her and hers.

While MacTaggert and I were preparing in secret, Valerie's persona started a new life in Rogue's mind and body. As far as I could tell as an outside observer, it was not an easy time for either of them, not that they would admit it. One unexpected effect of the two sharing one brain was that it enabled Rogue to have a baby. Changing shifts or watches at the helm of Rogue's mind they could ensure that the fetus was not killed by Rogue's absorption power. And so Rogue and her partner Magneto became the happy parents of a little daughter, Harriet Adler, who inherited Destiny's family name.

A little over a year later I could tell them about the clone, and Val agreed to relocate into this new body. With the help of a telepathic friend her personality and memories were transplanted to their new home. Valerie had to wait another month to be 'born', but then she was back among the living in body as well as in spirit. And about another year after that, having been raised by Moira MacTaggert, she was back with me and our daughters in Washington. Pyro and I picked her up at the X-Factor airport.

Because of the dangerous side-effects that frequently occur when a clone's growth is accelerated, the aging of Val's new body was not tampered with. It would age at the normal rate. My metamorphic power seems to grant me at least some immunity from the effects of old age (I do not look the three-quarter century that I had lived at the time of Val's rebirth), so we had the option of waiting for Val to become a mature adult in body a second time. And we braced ourselves for the long wait.

In the meantime, we lived what seemed to be a perfectly happy family life, although we pushed the borders of 'normality' a little more than before. Hard to believe that in our family – with two blue-skinned females and a blue-haired one with a wrong number of digits – this cherubic blond toddler would be the strangest of all. But there she was, sitting on a high chair at her desk, swiftly going through files and official papers, or checking Irene and Hope's homework. Valerie and I were in love, but in a Platonic or cerebral way, at least as far as Val was concerned. In her pre-pubescent body she did not have the hormones to desire more from me physically than an occasional hug. In the meantime I curbed my libido as best I could, occasionally seeking manual or mechanical relief. However, as time wore on, the occasions when Val behaved a bit distant became more frequent. It was a little worrying, but I had no idea how serious the crisis Val was going through actually was. Until, once again, it was too late.

What happened was that Val's clone developed a mind of its own and that Val, who can be to too true to her own principles for her own and everybody else's good, decided that her dominant personality was an insurmountable obstacle to the development of the little girl inside her and that therefore it would have to be removed. As usual she planned things well and set off to Westchester to have Charles Xavier erase her personal memories from the girl's brain when I was away on a mission. Apparently she got him to agree do that by telling him an alarmist tale about what was happening inside her head.

Once again my lover had not given me a chance to try to dissuade her or even to say good-bye.

The months that followed the discovery of Val's psychic suicide were bleak, and I do not care to recall them. At least Rogue, Pyro and Kurt were there for me during the most difficult phase. Meanwhile, Valerie's clone-sister Heloise settled down in Snug Valley, at the base of Rogue's team, the Meddlers, in the Alleghenies. I really did not have the nerves to look after her, indeed, so early after Valerie's second death I could barely look at her without bursting into tears. So she moved in with Rogue, Magneto and their daughter. Val's brother and his wife, even though accustomed to all kinds of weirdness, could not be convinced to take her in for more than a couple of weeks at a time. Maybe that was a good thing, at least Irene and Hope got to see their little 'aunt' fairly often when Rogue, Harriet and Heloise came to visit us in Washington or they went to visit them in West Virginia.

However, the constant reminders of Valerie she kept hearing not only from Irene, Hope and myself put a strain on Heloise. After a time she made bigger efforts to be excused from accompanying the others to Washington, and on my return visits she would frequently see to it that she stayed away, sleeping over with her friends, Rajinder and Dunmaya Shaara (the children of Rogue's teammates Agni and Photon) or with Maggie Cloudstar, the daughter of Danielle Moonstar and Joshua Guthrie. I no longer got to see her that often, and a part of me was relieved not having to have her in my face. Still, I followed her progress from afar. Whatever learning deficits she had from being confined in her own subconscious during the years when Valerie was in control, she overcame with satisfying speed. Once she started elementary school she settled down comfortably with above-average and top grades, just as Val had done back in '68.

Back in Washington I tend the garden. Two young girls can keep a woman busy, even if I can count on the occasional help of friends like Uncle Pyro (Irene and Hope can't or won't get their mind around the difference between the way they learned to pronounce 'St. John' in school and the way he pronounces his first name). It was a good thing that they didn't leave me enough time at day to feel sorry for myself during the two years before Irene enrolled in Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters.

Nights are a different matter, however...

***

It was in July 2000 on one of those rare hot, sunny weekends – as Sarah Andreesen, the daughter-in-law of Valerie's Aunt Emma modestly put it: "We get one like this per year if we're lucky, and then every single Hamburger goes into the parks to roast in the sun". While we left our children with the family, Kerstin, Sarah's youngest, took Val and me out to the Stadtpark along with her boyfriend Herbert, and we could see that was no exaggeration.

The park was thronged with people glad of the warmth and sunshine after the preceding gray and wet week. A dog wading in the circular pool near the eastern end was curiously following a model motor-boat, but when the little girl at her father's remote control turned the boat around so it headed towards it, the mutt became worried and hurried ashore. On the nearby lawns the good citizens of Hamburg were trying to make up for their chronic melanin deficiency. A lot of flesh was in evidence, in hues ranging from chalky white to lobster red and light brown, with a few deeply bronzed types in the crowd who looked as if they had bought their tans from a studio or brought it from a vacation in Mallorca or Fuerteventura. Some of the sunbathers obviously improvised – one woman in her twenties had stripped down to her silver-gray bra and panties, and her unprotected skin was turning a crimsonish shade of pink – others had come laden down with all the impedimenta of a seaside vacation. Beneath the green bronze statue of an Amazon archer mounted on a hind (what had the sculptor been smoking?) sat three girls in their late teens, two topless and one in a bikini, at their Sunday picnic, the latter strumming a guitar while one of her companions was busy rubbing suntan lotion into the skin of her shapely torso and the other set up their meal from a big basket. The right half of her back was covered by a large and intricate snake tattoo. (Maybe we saw a biased sample that day, but Valerie declared that every other man and woman had a tattoo of some description). Others were a lot more modest, for instance the participants of a Turkish family barbecue whom we passed a couple of minutes later. Even they, being a fairly secular lot, were underdressed in comparison to two Sikh ladies who crossed our path just after that.

After Kerstin had dragged us to her favorite duck pond (about a dozen mallards drowsily floating in the sun incurious to find out if we had anything to eat for them, while countless dragonflies flitted above the stagnant green water), we went past the noisy playground and children's wading pool to the Stadtpark lake. Even the adjoining great lawn, which normally is the preserve of athletic youths and overweight office workers playing football, volleyball and baseball, was largely taken over by sunbathing picnickers on that sultry afternoon. The oval lake was crowded with all manner of canoes, pedal-boats and rowing-boats. Valerie pointed out that a few of these flew the Hamburg flag – a white castle on red – that had served as the template for the costume of Hammonia, the local superheroine (and later Meddler) whom she had first met during the first metapowers conference. From time to time a motor ferry would sail onto the lake, turn around, and leave, as part of a tourists' excursion on the canals of the north-east of the city.

Eventually we went to the Freibad, a lido on the eastern end of the lake separated from the oval by a wall in the water. It was quite crowded, we had to stand in line for what seemed like ages before we got in. Most of the activity was around the edges, which left a family of tufted ducks largely undisturbed as they swam around the center and intermittently dove down for something to eat. Kerstin stripped down to the bottom half of her two-part swimsuit, which apparently roused Valerie's competitive instinct, and she immediately followed suit. In America she didn't do that sort of thing in public, she was a (minor) public figure there, so her breasts were distinctly whiter than the rest of her skin, which made her reddish-brown nipples appear even more vivid in contrast.

In my eyes there was no contest between Kerstin's girlish little cones and Valerie's familiar well-rounded matriarchal bosom. Well, I would say that, being responsible to no small extent for their state by getting her with child twice. So what if they were no longer as firm as they had been the first time I saw them naked and touched them. I think I actually preferred the darker color their tips now had. They were ideally suited to the woman who carried them like the rest of her body – the comfortable softness of her breasts and lips and the hardness of her well-trained muscles, the ticklish spots under her armpits and ribcage and the toughness of her fingers, all that was my Val all over.

While Kerstin and Herbert lazed on a blanket in the sun, Val quickly clambered down into the water, to cool down as well as for some exercise. I joined her and below her voice she thanked me for not choosing a body for myself that did not outshine Kerstin's or her own. We swam a few laps together, after which I sat down at the water's edge while Val rejoined the others to dry herself off.

I felt a sense of dissatisfaction. Everybody got to show off except me, while I had to sit around in one of my 'normal' bodies. That was a state of affairs I no longer wanted to tolerate, so I slid back into the water and plants, swam a little beneath the surface, and when I emerged again I was back in my accustomed dark blue body. Looking back, I could see Val freeze in surprise, but she could breathe a sigh of relief – most of the crowd ashore and in the water did not visibly react, as if they did not see me or as if there was an unspoken agreement not to regard my appearance as in any way unusual. A handful of young men and women did come up to me, but they did not bear pitchforks and torches and their intentions proved friendly.

„Tschuldigung, sind Sie etwa mit Neitkrohler verwandt?" asked the tall unshaven young man in the lead, excuse me, are you related to Nightcrawler?

He had a badge with the legend 'FC St. Pauli 1910' tattooed on his shoulder – evidently a supporter of the football club whose games Kurt likes to attend whenever he visits his native country. My younger son had even then become very popular among St. Pauli fans, partly because mutant rights (or perhaps more precisely, the fight against mutiphobia) was a cause that fit in well in their general political profile, partly because Kurt's swashbuckling attitude agreed so well with the piratical self-image (they had made the Jolly Roger the second emblem of the club they supported).

In any case, the youths were thrilled when I admitted that yes, I was Nightcrawler's parent. They bombarded me with questions – what are you doing here in Hamburg? Do you think there's a chance of Pauli being promoted to the Bundesliga after the upcoming season? (That I would take an interest in my son's favorite soccer club clearly went without question).

One of the original trio of onlookers, a short-haired woman with a shiny metal spike beneath her lower lip, asked me for an autograph, and soon others did too – rather a heady feeling, it doesn't happen every day, and I did not mind that for this crowd I was interesting mainly because of my connection to my son, the UK-based mutant superstar.

"Can I have an autograph too?" asked a sexy topless blonde brandishing an Edding marker. "I think you're incredible."

I looked her in the eyes. "But what shall I sign. You don't have a piece of paper."

For an answer, Val brazenly pointed at her ample left breast.

"Oh dear, what will my wife say about that," I sighed and proceeded to write my name and a little more on the proud warm flesh.

Valerie beamed at me as I surreptitiously fondled her under the cover of that action. She whispered: "She'll say: I can't believe I'm doing this, but I'm having the time of my life. Can't wait until tonight...!" Her broad smile also was due to the fact that for once I referred to her by the dreaded 'W-word'!

The men standing around us stared with huge grins, while the little lady with the stud winked at us with a knowing smile. My instinct told me that unlike the others she had followed the news about us over the years with diligent attention and saw what really was going on. I wonder if she was a mutant. She also got an autograph, but that I put safely on her shirt.

Later, Val and I went out shopping and she insisted on buying St. Pauli T-shirts for all our family. For me she picked one with a Jolly Roger design, saying: "This should go well with your skull fixation."

In the evening we returned to Val's aunt's Jugendstil house in Winterhude to tuck up Irene and tiny Hope (just over a year old then), to take a shower and to change into clothes that weren't sweat-soaked. Valerie then finally discovered (in the bathroom mirror) what I had written on the underside of her breasts. "Oh you!" she laughed out, giving me a playful slap, but there was no time for hanky-panky – yet!

Instead we went out for a quick bite and drink before we ended up at a free open-air cinema performance on the Rathausmarkt. They showed Lola rennt, a quite fascinating comedy that showed the same situation developing into three completely different endings that unravel from what at first glance appear to be insignificant changes. It made us reflect about what Irene Adler had to try to unravel when her precognition gave her confusing glimpses of the future, but by that point Val had long ceased to worry about my memories of Destiny. Indeed, as it was also a romantic story, we sat and cuddled among the big crowd. It still was hot and perspiration and halfway through we felt sticky again. It was around midnight when it finished, we walked along the Innenalster to dry in the cooling night air. The lights of the city were reflected in the calm surface of the Alster Lake, from time to time you could hear ducks quacking out loudly, and we were happy to be alive and in love. "We'll have to send Kurt a postcard tomorrow to thank him for that nice reception at the lido," I recall Valerie saying. Finally we took a taxi at the main railway station and rode home along the east bank of the Aussenalster.

That we ended that day by making slow, passionate love in the small double bed in the spare bedroom goes without saying. Once we closed the front door behind us, I 'verted back to my usual shape (a blue woman for my blond lady) and stayed in it until we fell asleep in each other's arms (and after). But before that happened – hours later – when I was already drowsy and assumed Val was too, she surprised me and tapped unsuspected reserves of energy. During that sudden burst of intense activity, all I had to do was lie back and bask in her love-making. And keep my voice down so my moans did not keep the neighborhood awake. Then I reciprocated and she could relax and enjoy it herself. It was a perfect ending to a perfect day. Sadly, Valerie did not get as many of those as she deserved...

***

Today I am in picturesque Snow Valley, Massachusetts, sitting with Irene among the other first-year students and their parents, pretending to listen to the speech Charles Xavier is giving to welcome everybody for the new term. He does not have much to do with the day-to-day running of the school, but a lot of the graduates of the former Massachusetts Academy go on to become students at the Xavier Institute in Salem Center, so of course he always tries to be there for commencement day ceremonies.

Looking around the auditorium, I see an eclectic assortment of parents and children, both super-powered and non-powered, some looking as unusual as Irene with her sky-blue skin, others just run of the mill. And including at least one genuine alien, Z'rquon Storm, the Human Torch's adopted son. There he is, sitting next to his fellow senior, Nathan Summers.

But today all eyes are turned elsewhere, on the strange entourage of one of the freshers. After all, how often do you get a chance to see the reclusive monarch of Latveria up close? Doctor Doom has made a truce for the duration of Valeria Richards' first day at Xavier's and is sitting to the right of the Invisible Woman, while Valeria and Mister Fantastic sit to her left. All the while Doom is in the suspicious glare of the Thing sitting in the row behind them with his son Jonathan Ventura. Victor von Doom has declared that Valeria – whom he helped bring into the world – is under his protection. Guess that means that not even the most 'gifted' of her classmates will want to risk getting in a fight with this pretty blonde with the ponytail.

Xavier has finished giving his address, now Emma Frost walks onto the podium to introduce the faculty, which for this term includes Mr. Shola Inkosi of Gandhi College, Hammer Bay, Genosha and Ms. Jean Grey from the Xavier Institute in Westchester. It does not have to be stated overtly what she'll be instructing. Emma Frost's no-nonsense efficiency is more to my liking than the Professor's oratory. Classical music is played by the school orchestra, and mercifully everything is over relatively quickly.

As the assembly breaks up, I get to shake hands with the people I know, including the expected awkward moment with Xavier. It is only the second time we have met face to face since... We exchange a few perfunctory words. He does not look too well, the skin has a slightly unhealthy shade, there are a lot more wrinkles than the last time I saw him. We both quickly move on to talk to other people.

In my case that means Havok's brother Cyclops and his wife; their elder daughter Ruth is one of Irene's classmates. Madelyne Pryor-Summers is quite flushed with the first-year progress of their little airline, Summers Breeze, which is mostly her project. Scott and Alex Summers had sold off the shares in the Anchorage-based freight airline they had inherited from their grandparents, but last year Scott and Madelyne decided that their children were now old enough to allow them to start a new one in upstate New York. Now the initial problems have been overcome in time for the end of Cyclops' sabbatical. He can now return to the X-Men with an easy mind and leave the day-to-day running of the company to his spouse.

The Summerses are accompanied by a Japanese gentleman. "This is Shiro Yoshida," says Cyclops with an ironic smile. "He holds the record for the shortest active tenure on the X-Men."

Sunfire is not sure how long he will let his son Eichi stay here. He would prefer to have him educated in Japan, but grudgingly has to admit that they don't have schools there with as much competence and experience in helping to develop and use nascent mutant powers. His wife did not come with him, instead he traveled with his cousin by adoption, Amiko Yashida, who was returning to Harvard Business School from a vacation in the old country. I'm not really in a mood for small talk, but it would be worse to let this opportunity pass by unused to learn something about Irene's classmates and their parents.

While I am thus occupied, Irene has fun reconnoitering the Academy grounds and buildings, making acquaintances and – I hope – new friends. When I finally see her again, it is already half past three. Reney is slightly tired, but full of enthusiasm. After she shows me her room – the furry toy Stegosaurus Hope had spontaneously given her at our departure yesterday has already been deposited on her bed – we go out to spend the rest of the afternoon together until she has to return to the dorm. We find an ice-cream parlor in the vicinity, where we sit down at a table in the back (Irene has a fancy chocolate sundae and I a coffee and a cookie). The place is done up in a 1950s decor with some art déco touches (Valerie would have asked the waitress if they are part of the original furnishings or 'retro' additions.) It seems to be a place often frequented by Xavier students, Irene's blue skin causes the same kind of non-reaction as it would back home on 30th Street in Georgetown.

Irene is in a good mood and chatters on about everything and everyone she saw today. I listen with a smile, secretly wondering (or is it hoping?) how much she'll start missing me, her sister and her friends at home once the initial sensory overload has worn off. At last, not long before suppertime, I drop her off at the gate. Bye, mama! she says brightly as we exchange pecks on cheeks. Then she turns around and purposefully walks off towards the buildings. Not for the first time I am struck by how her way of moving, her build and her hair resemble those of her mother, because except for the moment when she turns around to wave at me, I don't see her face. Wonderful. Now I won't just miss Irene when I fly back to Washington, I'll also feel miserable for being reminded of losing Val! I am torn from my maudlin thoughts when a woman hails me from behind. It is Jean Grey.

The former Marvel Girl is not exactly a close acquaintance of mine, even though as Wolverine's wife and a former Meddler she is a friend of my daughter Rogue. Aside from her temporary teaching job at the Academy she is also a fellow Xavier parent: Warren Worthington IV, her son from her first marriage, is beginning his sophomore year. "I bet he hopes this term is over quick," she says during our first exchange of pleasantries.

As it turns out, she won't have anything to do with Irene – she'll be teaching advanced students how to fine-tune their telekinesis and telepathy. What my daughter will learn about telepathy or, more precisely, about the ways of resisting it, will be in a course given by Emma Frost herself.

Seeing that we both have time on our hands, Jean invites me to her little teacher's apartment (it belongs to the school, although it is outside its grounds).

"I'll only be teaching on Wednesdays," she explains, "so this is handy for staying one or two nights a week. That way Logan and Mary can stay at home in Salem and I can be with them the rest of the time."

It comes as a pleasant surprise to me how comfortable I feel talking with her, much more than with the people I met in the morning. Maybe our temperaments are more compatible. Of course she is what some people call easy on the eye. She is in her early forties now, but one still has no problems seeing why all her male classmates went gaga over her when she joined Xavier's school. I bet she'll set quite a few of her students' hearts aflutter this term.

"I see you're impressed by my youthful good looks," she says with an impish grin. "You have to remember they are in part due to spending three years in suspended animation at the bottom of Jamaica Bay."

I reply in the same tone: "While I was lucky enough that my X-factor gave me the choice to look as good as I want to."

"And most of the time you choose to look like an overgrown Smurfette?"

It has been a while since I laughed out this loud in the company of someone who is not family or a close friend like Pyro. "Some find that look attractive."

"I know, Logan for one." But I swear, if I didn't already know about Jean Grey's wild streak, I would have deduced it by now from the dreamy way she looked at me during this exchange.

Is this why she invited me? Does she want to scope out one of her husband's former sex-partners? (I wouldn't call it lovers. With so many of them, myself included, it was a primarily sexual affair.) "Before your time," I remind her. It was sixteen years ago, not long after her wedding to Angel. At the time I was at loose ends following Irene Adler's death. "We both needed companionship", I add.

Jean just smiles and moves on to another subject. As time wears on, our conversation touches all manner of things, and as the ice is broken, we go beyond the usual small talk of our previous meetings (mostly at official functions like NATO metapowers conferences or during the brief breaks between the end of a successful mission and the departure of our respective teams in different directions). I tell something of my life with Irene Adler and Val Cooper (or at least give some hints, for my caution may be diminished, but it has not gone entirely), and she proves a good listener. For once the fact that she is a relative stranger makes me feel more at ease, and I tell her more than I expected when I accepted her invitation. I'm even fairly at ease about her being a telepath. When I mention that, Jean sighs. "You get a lot of this, don't you," I apologize.

"Me and every other known telepath. And of course our nearest and dearest, if they're known." Her voice momentarily switches to a passable parody of a vapid daytime talk show host. "'How do you live with your wife being able to read your every thought, Mr. Worthington?' Over and over again!"

"I suppose you telepaths have a more difficult time than most once you're out of the closet."

"Yes, TP can complicate your life a lot. You need to learn when not to use it, which means exerting a lot of self-control, and getting into that habit can play havoc with your love-life. Love begins as an impulse, so what are you going to do if you had to condition yourself to resist acting impulsively, to think before you act instead of going with your feelings?"

"I guess this is why someone like Moondragon took so long to 'thaw'."

"Well, her case is very extreme. On Titan she went through a rigorous training that made her one of the most cerebral ever and suppressed most of her emotions. Except perhaps her feelings of superiority..."

I grin at that little dig at the occasional Avenger.

"... but eventually even she found her soulmate and learned how to reshape herself and her life to accommodate for love."

"From what I heard about it, her telepathy was an advantage then, though, helping her and Marlo Jones, as she then was, to get into the clear about their feelings in a much shorter space of time."

"Oh, it's not that telepathy can't be an advantage for love. There are some dimensions to being to read your lover's thoughts and also to show him or her what goes on in your mind that outsiders just can't comprehend. I wouldn't miss it in the world. But sometimes you can learn a bit too much about someone in too short a time. And it isn't always easy to learn that not every unreflected stray thought may mean what you think it does, or for both partners to be patient with each other and to respect each other's privacy."

"I think I know what you mean. Emma Frost and Robert Drake took a very long time to move together."

"Yes, Emma hadn't had anyone to help her to teach herself about being a telepath. But it's something for which there is no single solution. It was different for Warren and me than it is for Logan and me, and it must be different again for Warren and Betsy. All the same, it probably helped that I had my first relationship before I became a full-blown telepath. I did not have to learn all about love in one fell swoop."

And Jean begins to speak to me of her romantic life. She still often thinks about what might have been between her and Cyclops.

"Scott was my first and I was his first," she says, "so he'll always be special to me."

I tell her that I had already lost count of my sexual partners by the time I met Irene and realized how little they had meant to me.

"I'd say that in the real sense Irene Adler was your first," she insisted. "I think I felt about Scott the way you felt about her."

"Maybe not quite. You did not get around to moving together. Did you shy from a commitment?"

"Believe me, I'd have shacked up with him at the drop of a hat," she says with a disarming smile. "But it takes two people to move together, and Scott wouldn't do it. He was raised in an orphanage, pretty inhibited back then, and he also had that thing about the burden of command and all that. But if it hadn't been for the Phoenix, I'm convinced I'd be living happily ever after as Scott's wife. Instead, when I returned, I found he had found someone else. And at first I didn't know what irked me more about Maddy – that she was so much like me, or that Scott had come to love some parts of her where she is different."

I start to say something, but she will not be pitied. I like that.

"Well, Scott wasn't to blame, and neither was Madelyne. Once they had worked out their difficulties, I could only stand aside. When they then found out that she is my clone-sister and she had to learn from scratch how to love him, I was of a little help. And I'm glad they have a good and happy life together. But still my husbands had to live with my memories of Scott."

Jean is perhaps overly modest about her part in the Pryor-Summers reconciliation, if Kurt and Rogue's accounts are anything to go by, but I let that pass. Instead I ask an obvious question: "Was that the reason you and Warren Worthington...?"

"No. That marriage was simply a mistake. On both parts." She leans back to reflect, then continues. "Well, not a total mistake. We're still parents of our son and we're still good friends. Better friends than we were before, actually. We care for each other and we talk about everything when we get together. And of course the sex was great, better than my first attempts with Scott all those years ago..."

That must be a diversion to avoid giving detailed reasons why she considers her first marriage a mistake. Not that I'm complaining – what could be more enjoyable to contemplate than Jean Grey having sex...!

Our conversation goes on for a bit, then Jean realizes what time it is. She declares it is too late for me to start my journey south and offers to put me up for the night in her apartment. I tell her there is no need. I have already reserved a room at a motel, because I want to surprise Irene after school tomorrow. We continue to talk in her Saab (dark green, to go with her hair) as she drives me there. Jean Grey, more demonstrative in her displays of affection, gets out of the car to give me a hug after we arrive. Not to be outdone, I return the compliment with a kiss. On the mouth.

It becomes a bit more passionate than I envisaged, for a few seconds I feel as if I've returned to the old days, when I lived on the edge and would flaunt the rules of polite society at the drop of a hat. Besides, Jean Grey is a very sexy woman, and I haven't kissed a girl as if I meant it for nine long years.

Jean is surprised, but does not resist. Maybe my impulsive action amuses her. How different from the way Storm reacted to me flirting with her once in the days of the Brotherhood (anger raging under an icy surface).

My body rejoices in the charge it gets from the intimate contact, the long-missed touch of lips upon lips, the soft resilience of her breasts against mine. And part of my mind feels pleasure at the thought of the discomfort Jean will possibly feel later when she remembers she is married (but now the pressure of her embrace grows stronger). And another part of me feels ashamed because of this. All in all it is a mercy (and not at all surprising) that we then part without further ado and with as few words as possible. I think I probably should not have done this, but then I catch her winking at me.

After I've taken my shower, I feel more alive than I have in a long time. It takes hours until I fall asleep.

***

She said she was sorry Irene Adler had been killed. Was there anything she could do for me? Did I want her to accompany me to the cremation?

I snapped at her: The last thing I need is your pitiful sympathy, Dr. Cooper. Irene died on a mission ordered by your bureaucracy, you've done enough.

Valerie said a little more in the caring vein – something about understanding what Irene had meant to me and giving me enough leave to grieve for her and bring our affairs in order. But I wasn't in a mood to listen and stomped out of the room. Then, after Val had slunk out of the house, I threw myself on Irene's bed feeling more miserable and more lonely than ever before in my life.

"That must have been the first time she genuinely reached out to you."

I turn around, and there stands the first great love of my life as I will always remember her from our first meeting – the almost fragile figure, the dark hair, the elegant black costume with the bolero jacket, the overcoat, the pillbox hat. Hello Irene, I say, but a part of me wants me to look away. She's nothing but a wishful fantasy, it insists, don't waste your time on her!

For a moment I consider telling Destiny to bugger off, but instead I say: Yes, it may well have been. It was the first time that she did and that I'd notice, even if it took me a while to register. But so shortly after your death (and that came before I had a chance to get over Rogue's apparent death in Dallas), all I desired to do was to curl up and die, or failing that, cry for the ones I had lost and generally feel sorry for myself. I was not too far gone to notice the changes Val had gone through by that point. Compared to the mutiphobia she had spouted off when I first met her and her healthy distrust of me during the time when we first set up Freedom Force, she seemed to be quite concerned about me emotionally as a person. Wonder what would have happened if you had foreseen that I would end up with her and not with Forge...

"We've been through this when I was alive, Raven," Irene Adler says with her characteristic and well-remembered patience. "Some prophecies foretell what will happen in any case, others are told to shape the future. The ancient Greeks preferred the kind that came to pass because people tried to forestall their fulfillment, but one should not discount the possibility that someone foretells one thing precisely because he or she wants another thing to happen..."

Yes, yes, yes, that would explain why you got it wrong about me and Forge (thankfully!), but you still won't tell me if you foresaw what would happen between me and Valerie, right?

Through the mists of my dream it seems that a brief smile appears on her silent lips. My mind races back to the first time I felt something like a tender emotion for Valerie. It was not long after your death, Irene, when Valerie became a thrall of the Shadow King, who sent her out to kill me. As you foretold in one of your letters to me, that order went so much against her grain that she managed to throw off his control long enough to turn the gun against herself. Because of your letter that came as no surprise, but it impressed me.

"You were angry at me when I gave my life for you, yet when she tried to do the same..."

That kind of cattiness does not suit you, try to act more like yourself. Or more in accordance with how people are supposed to behave in the hereafter. Besides, the situation was different, Valerie did what she did not out of affection for me. She would have done the same if she had been told to kill a complete stranger. She just could not kill someone she did not consider deserving of death, and it also was the only way she could think of of permanently ridding herself of Farouk's hold on her. That she saved my life was almost just a side-effect. But it wasn't just her actions that day that left such an impression on me, although I would in later years always be reminded of it when my hands ran over Valerie's scalp. There was also the immediate aftermath.

The bullet had only grazed Val's skull and left her unconscious. While she lay in an artificially sustained coma, Nick Fury and I decided that we would pretend that the assassination attempt had succeeded and I would infiltrate the Shadow King's operation in Val's shape. To feed the media statements to the desired effect was easy enough. To fool a super-telepath like Amahl Farouk up close was a different prosition requiring special efforts. In the short time we had, SHIELD's experts pumped me full of all the information on Valerie that they could lay their fingers on.

"Lucky for you that you already knew so much from rifling through her personal files whenever you had the chance before."

Yes, it paid off that I always try to be prepared. They also implanted a post-hypnotic conditioning that made me believe I actually was Valerie Cooper so that my thoughts would not betray me. And, since we knew a bit about Farouk's MO and his delight in having others suffer while he gorged his fleshly appetites until his host body was worn out, we could not exclude the possibility that he had already violated Valerie in the flesh when he forced her under his will. We therefore had to make sure that I got her body right down to the smallest detail. So they left me alone with her to look her over for distinctive moles and scars, to prod about her usually inaccessible parts so I could properly remodel mine accordingly. I was really relieved that I could not find any major recent scars on her (apart from the self-inflicted one underneath the bandages wrapping her head). There was a fairly big cut on her left calf, but that had healed so well that most people would only notice it at second glance, a childhood scar in fact. But it was a surprisingly unpleasant experience – I've never been the most respectful person about other people's privacy, but right then I felt a little queasy. At the same time I could not help being startled at her expression. She looked almost satisfied with her personal little victory over the Shadow King, as if she knew that she had punched a chink in his armor that I now could exploit to help bring him down.

Irene has listened attentively all the time, now she smiles again, a wistful little smile at yet another temporary victory over the living ghost responsible for her own death. I continue.

But perhaps the thing I remembered most, because it came out so strong even under those queasy circumstances and clinical surroundings, was the constant thought: How pretty she looks. Valerie did not possess the statuesque grace of someone like Emma Frost, the natural perfection of a Jean Grey or the overblown voluptuousness of an Elizabeth Braddock. When I first saw you at Old Trafford station I was immediately struck by your looks, but with Val it took me all these years until I was with her in that dreadful silent intensive care unit before I began to notice her more subtle beauty. Maybe it was her defenselessness, not so much that I saw her naked than that for the first time I looked at her properly without the sharp dress and hard-nosed attitude. And without looking for confirmation for my preconceived notions about her.

***

The evening's good feelings carry over to the next day, I notice how heartily I dig into the nondescript breakfast. (By the look of things the landlady thinks that her guests come for the ambiance of a genuine Continental style house, not for fancy cookery).

At the school, Irene does not give any indication that she is surprised to see me when I show up unannounced during recess. She is however glad to see me and introduces me to some of her classmates, in particular to her roommate, Candida Mayhew.

A few years ago the mutant students of the School for Gifted Youngsters generally stuck to themselves, but that has changed as the superpowered became more accepted in some parts of the world and after Charles Xavier rethought the best ways of achieving his 'dream'. Candida does not have any powers, she is what certain mutant supremacists would call a Homo inferior or a flatscan (not in Val's hearing of course, when she still was alive). She is however 'gifted' in other ways, a straight-A student who won a Eudora Frost scholarship (instituted by a bequest of Emma's great-grandfather). So academically she and Irene should fit together well. They also appear to get on well enough on a personal level, at least as far as I can judge at this early stage.

Candida does not like being called 'Candy', she prefers 'Canny' or 'Cands'. She looks the English Rose type, and it turns out that her father was born in England. At her age, she is still a bit gangly, not unlike Irene herself. At first there are some bad vibrations on my part, until I realize that it's an irrational reaction to her voice – its pitch and the Boston accent remind me of my former enemy Carol Danvers – and after overcoming that I find her quite likeable, as far as one can tell from first impressions.

Later, when we spend a little time together alone, I mention in passing to Irene that her mother probably would have approved of Candida as her roommate. Irene nods with a sad smile – even though she and Hope sometimes think I obsess about Val they miss her too.

All in all Irene appears to be content with her new school, despite the separation from her family and old schoolmates. So far, although her looks have caused a lot of people to stare at her, there have been no real problems. She thinks she is making friends both among the 'normos' and the powered students, but she is also bubbling over with how well she acquitted herself in the first morning training session today. I feel compelled to warn her not to become cocky, especially when they start having sessions with the older students in a few weeks. When we finally part, Irene winks and asks me if I'll really be going back to Washington this time.

Don't fret, you'll be rid of your old Mama soon enough, I say somewhat ungraciously and immediately regret it. Luckily Irene takes it in good humor. Still, I feel compelled to ask: "Do you think I fuss too much over you and Hope ever since Mommy is gone?" Sometimes I worry if I am trying too hard.

"You're doing fine, Mama," she replies loyally, and her hug makes me feel a little better.

"Next time I visit I'll try to let you know beforehand," I promise.

"Please do. Hope you'll have as much fun then as you did this time. Uncle Sinjin should be glad." Well, Pyro does keep telling me I should go out more...

I sigh ironically but don't comment, just kiss Irene and say good-bye, and then she quickly rejoins her fellow students. Still, I sigh a little when she is out of sight and hearing.

As I start to leave the building, whom do I see but Jean Grey. She motions me into an empty class-room. Finally decided to tell me off for my freshness yesterday, I think. But instead she gives me a coquettish look and asks: "Don't I get another kiss today?"

Well, you asked for this, Jean. I put my lips to hers, but to my surprise she takes the initiative away from me, encircles me in her arms, bends me backwards. When she breaks the kiss, she titters at the way she turned the tables on me. The look in her eyes says it all: You thought it was fun to play with fire, but what are you going to do when I call your bluff?

***

When we arrived at Jean's apartment, we did not make it into the bedroom, we stripped down immediately and did it among the scattered clothes on the carpet. I only inisted on one rule, that she did not use her telepathy, and for that she got to call the shots. After she had given lesbian sex a thorough try, she had me shift into male mode for the rest of the session, for which we finally adjourned to her bed.

It is one of the advantages and drawbacks of my power that I can be all things to my sexual partners. It can be gratifying in the short run, but often made me wonder whether they liked me or the fantasies that I could make real for them. I remember that I even was a little insecure about shifting into my real body (or, if that word should not be used, my default body) when Valerie and I first really made love.

In a way I was glad to assume different shapes that afternoon, it helped me to put a little distance between my inner self and the woman who rolled on the floor with Jean Grey, to convince me that what we both wanted was just sex and not a sticky emotional attachment. The act itself was like an explosion. Pent-up urges at last found their release with such force that my knees buckled and there were times when my entire body shook. Jean could not help remarking: "Wow, I thought you really needed a good lay, but this is ridiculous."

Part of me had at first resisted against jumping into bed with Jean, but after we had done the deed the question most on my mind was how on Earth I had managed to stay celibate all those years. Was it because I had wanted to show Val I could do without sexual partners? After all, when she still was in Rogue's body, she kept hinting not so subtly that I should go out and look for a new bedmate. In the weeks that followed, I could not help thinking that she was finally getting what she had said she wanted.

But what was Jean's reason to have that one-afternoon stand with me? I know Logan, I've experienced first hand the effect of his self-healing factor on his endurance and recuperative powers. It is hard to imagine that Jean would seek me out because she felt unsatisfied, even if there are things I can do for her that Logan cannot. I was a bit taller than him when I slept with Jean as a male, but so are about nine men out of ten (and almost four women out of five). Was the thrill of the illicit the kick craved? Did she need a change? Did the stress of life as a costumed heroine become too much (just now a young teammate of hers, Synch, is close to finalizing his divorce)? Or is she going through her mid-life crisis and needed to show to herself that she still had what it took to seduce a stranger?

Whatever her reasons were, I didn't complain. I expected Wolverine would find out about his wife's infidelity soon enough, his enhanced senses would probably ensure that even if she succeeded in concealing it whenever she went into a mind-link with him. I tried to sound her out on the subject afterwards, but she told me not to concern myself about it. Well, Jean is a grown woman, she should know what she is doing. In one way we had done it under his eyes, for unlike the typical movie adulterer she had not bothered to turn around her spouse's framed photograph or hide it in a drawer. On my flight home that struck me as oddly reassuring.

I expected the affair to end there and then, with no emotional residue. On the flight back to Washington I even hummed to myself and when Pyro picked me up, he immediately noticed the change. "You had a bit of rough," he blurted out as I walked up to him.

"Your insight serves you well, young Allerdyce," I said, and asked him not to gossip to the others.

There was no need, St. John is the soul of discretion. (Funny how I fell into using a Star Wars quote at that moment, that was Val's obsession, not mine.) I did not tell him who had been my partner, and he did not pry, even though he said he was glad that I was behaving more 'normal' again and made a few jokes about it as he drove us back into town.

I slept wonderfully that night.

***

"Ta-dah!" Valerie sings out unlocking the door to her room. "Impressed, Harry?"

I grin in mock admiration. Actually it is not really different from the other single rooms in the hotel. Wooden walls made of outsized Lincoln Logs to evoke the 'frontier charm' that Benjamin Horne (the owner) found appropriate to this Nothing Gulch in the northeast corner of Washington State. But like the man himself, they appear too smooth to ring true, sanded down and varnished so that no visiting conventioneer or affluent city-dweller has to worry about ending up with a splinter in his finger or risk being offended by the smells you normally get in real log-cabins. Above the queen-size bed is a framed picture of an owl in flight (could it be a Spotted one?).

"Can I use the bathroom?" I ask.

She nods and points to the door. "Should have gone when we still were in the restaurant."

I chuckle and leave. Ah, the unsung joys of using a male body! Afterwards I take care to leave the seat up so as not to disappoint expectations. I take advantage of the occasion to freshen up at the hand-basin, looking myself over in the mirror. Sheriff Truman, whose shape I have borrowed, does possess a charm that many would describe as 'rugged'. I can understand why Valerie felt drawn to his athletic body, tanned skin and curly dark hair. I noticed how she made eyes at him whenever there was a quiet moment during this extended emergency, even if he apparently did not. But tonight an opportunity presented itself (he left for the hospital without taking his leave) and I seized it with both hands, asking Val out to dinner as Harry. And succeeded almost beyond expectation. Maybe my behavior is crazy, but frankly I don't give a damn. I deserve some fun too.

When I return to the bedroom, Valerie walks up to meet me and kisses me on the mouth. My, you're not one to waste time or words, I say as we break apart.

"Why, do you want me to?" she replies with a sweet giggle. "I thought you were the strong, tall and silent, not the good listener type."

I smile and take her in my arms. The preliminaries of this encounter have been dealt with before we came to this room. We kiss again, longer and more intensely this time. Feeling the softness of her lips against mine and the that of her breasts against 'my' manly chest causes a momentary pang of regret that I chose to seduce her in the shape of a man. Seduce her? Well, to some extent she has seduced me. Not just because I walked into her charm offensive intended for Sheriff Harry, but because her whole personality is engaging today. I don't think we've ever been so relaxed with each other before, the big battle is over and we both are lonely people in search of release.

Even while we are kissing, Valerie unbuttons the checked lumberjack shirt I'm wearing and helps me get out of it. It is soon joined on the floor at the foot of her bed by her yellow turtle-necked dress. Her underwear is pink. She leaves me the pleasure of opening her satiny bra and taking it off, while slipping off her panty herself (are we a wee bit impatient?).

It is good we both opted for the silent approach, I could not give voice to the thoughts that rush in on me after I've bared her body without giving away the game. It can hardly say: I love your breasts, they look so much better than I remember them! (And indeed, their skin is in the pink of health and maybe the flush of expectation, while back then its unhealthy pallor was underscored by the bright artificial lighting of the ICU). Or even: How I would like to squash my breasts against yours, if only I could return to a female body!

But instead I bow forward towards her bosom so that my breath blows over the powder-pink tips, causing her nipples to rise almost imperceptively from the crinkling rings around them. Val's growing excitation is evident from her body's state of perpetual motion, which helps to exorcise the memory of her corpse-like stillness in the hospital. Don't know when it was the last time you had sex, but by that evidence it seems to have been quite a while. Well, I'll gladly help you catch up, your pleasure shall be my pleasure. (Did I say that back then or did I merely think that?)

I have no idea what Truman is like in bed and I don't care a fig. I sink down between her thighs. My mood is tender tonight and so I make love to Val gently. Is she surprised that I appear unmindful of my own immediate gratification? She appreciates it at any rate, stroking my locks – a little clumsily – with her left hand while hyperactively squeezing her breasts and twiddling her nipples with the right. (Oh, you could have much longer hair to play with!) With my head in its current location I can't see much, but I hear her breathing getting heavier and more ragged as time passes in slow motion. She mumbles encouragements as my uncomfortably big hands almost furtively rove up her body. The strong muscles of her stomach rhythmically grow hard and relax as her inexorable orgasm builds, then I'm past the lower ribs and arrive at her breasts. My fingers dig into the soft, resilient flesh and for a couple of moments Val's hands settle on mine to push them harder against herself. Then they are gone, to reappear on the back of my head when she approaches her first climax.

"Wow," she says when this stage is finally over after what seems like hours, "you are good at this. And not many men would have the patience..."

"Maybe I'm a man like no other."

"Let's not indulge in delusions of grandeur." She playfully slaps my cheek. "But it's high time for Little Harry to get his reward. Just lay back and relax..."

With that she turns her attentions to 'my' semi-flaccid member. Oh, the wet heat of her mouth, the squishy depths of her cleavage, the incessant activity of her slender fingers and agile tongue, the gentle hardness of her teeth! When she senses that I have trouble holding back she stops and reaches for the packet of condoms she providentially put on the bedside table. She unwraps one and efficiently slips it on 'Little Harry'. And then, at last, she climbs on top of me.

We are both strangely at ease in the moment of union. "You like being on top, Valerie?"

"It's an image thing." She grins playfully. "Everyone likes to call me bossy. But look at the up side – you don't have to work so hard."

Gradually, gently, and once again silently she settles down. I slide deeper and deeper into her hot and moist interior. Slowly she begins to move, taking great care not to rush me. I don't remain passive for long, though. Soon our hips move against each other in a common rhythm. My arms go up to grip and hold her, and she takes advantage of the lift to reach down and pinch my nipples into hard erection. I grit my teeth as I struggle to hold back, and together we manage to delay our orgasm for a surprisingly long time, but finally we come loudly in a sweaty climax.

And it does not end there...

Afterwards Valerie is in a talkative mood. We lie together under the blanket, spent, her head resting on my shoulder, and take stock on the events of the past few days. To my surprise, she eventually starts to talk about me.

"God, I wish I could have had a word with Mystique earlier today, too bad she disappeared so early. I suppose she wanted to be alone." She sighed. "It must be hard for her, coming up against the Shadow King again so soon. He probably was responsible for her life-partner's death, you know."

"But you defeated him," I perform my part as the sheriff, "he's gone now."

"So it would seem. The 'fireworks' certainly were impressive enough. But I bet Raven Darkh"lme is convinced he'll be back sooner or later." There you guess correctly, I'm afraid.

And what do you think?

"I fear she may be right. I've been up against him before, for a time he turned me into his slave... I have some idea of what he can do. How do you kill an astral entity anyway? We succeeded in weakening and expelling him from my brother, but I'm not too optimistic we've seen the last of him... A pity Raven sticks to herself off-duty. I understand her grief and her anger, but she shouldn't shut herself off and let them eat into her like that. It's not good for her. If she doesn't want to let me or anyone from the team help her, maybe she should at least talk to her daughter more often. She hasn't seen her once except in the course of missions since we press-ganged her into X-Factor..."

Here she inadvertently puts her finger on a sore point. Why do I not get together with Rogue? Am I still angry at her for leaving me to join the X-Men, for going to her death with them? I could do something about it, and I really should. After all, she is the most important living person in my world now. (Along with Kurt, but he still hasn't sussed out he's my son).

"Did you tell her that?" I venture.

"Ha!" Val snorts, "I needn't bother. She'd hurl that kind of advice right back in my face."

"Who knows, maybe she'd surprise you. You can't always predict what people..."

"I suppose trying can't make her hate me more than she already does." But her derision does not completely drown out the undertone of regret.

"But you no longer hated her, did you? You were already beginning to fall in love with her that night..."

You again, Irene. Can't a woman dream in peace?

"Be grateful I waited until after you had your fun with Valerie." The room, Val, my male shape all dissolve and in the end only Irene and Mystique are left, hovering in a milky white fog.

Now that you mention it, Irene, your timing is impeccable. What followed wasn't all light and sunshine. Seeing that in her way she cared for me made me feel uncomfortable. Though we had our fun that night, and I think the sex did a world of good and helped us both to get over the uneasy forebodings about the Shadow King, I realized I was no longer unconcerned about being found out. That put a damper on things and I left rather hurriedly early the next morning.

"But it all worked out for the best..."

After she did find out, it took a bit of time and groveling until she forgave me the hurt she felt because of the way I had sneaked into her pants. We did not speak of that night all that often later. For us our real first time was during the night six weeks later, when we laid to rest our misunderstandings, when she told me she had come to love me and made me see that I had fallen in love with her.

"However I can tell that you still have quite fond memories of that hotel."

Yes, that was a guilty little pleasure. As time wore on even Valerie felt safe enough to make jokes about it occasionally. She accepted I meant no harm. Well, as you said, it worked out for the best. If you were real, I suppose you'd be content. You said you wanted me to be happy with someone else after you died.

Irene just smiles indulgently, but then her expression changes.

Is there something the matter?

"Well, if you must know... Raven, I have been seeing quite a bit of you since I died, and sometimes I wonder... you dream about Valerie a lot, but..."

I'm dreaming of you now.

"That's different."

Irene, surely you're not jealous of Valerie at this time of life, I mean: death? You know I'll love you until I die!

"In a depressingly Platonic way most of the time," she says dejectedly. She may be right. I tend to think of her as she was in the final years of her life, slender, graceful, but not as young as she used to be (aged perhaps more by what she had experienced than mere years) and a little too frail to be the focus of wild sexual fantasies. On the other hand, here in this dream she is young again, I just was too preoccupied...

"Maybe, my dear, it is not too late to remedy things," I say and move in. It becomes a good kiss, and as I hold her tighter against me I feel her joyful excitement. And, fresh as it once was, my own growing arousal. It is incredible, my libido has returned with a vengeance, could it be because of that afternoon with Jean? But for now my first love and I let our imagined bodies do most of the talking, although Irene has another thought for me:

"Things should really get interesting if you should ever make it to heaven and eventually be reunited with Valerie and me..."

***

The weeks that followed were fairly normal. Pulling myself together, I appeared as accustomed to the other X-Factorites. The usual regime of training sessions, alarm drills, shifts on monitor duty interrupted by the occasional real emergency and subsequent debriefings. Off duty there was time to look through Hope's homework and generally annoy my youngest daughter. My undivided attention became a reason for her to regret her sister Irene's departure for Massachusetts, although that also had a welcome side-effect for her: Hope is now the oldest of the four X-Factor children in Georgetown. Mike Madrox is about a year younger than she, then comes Guido Carosella's daughter Pru Cheney, and finally Chris Summers, Jr. Of course in Hope's own estimation the age difference becomes even greater, she sees herself as almost a grownup and her school and play-mates as young boys and girls. (As her parent I may be prejudiced, but I do think she is actually quite mature for her age, in part due to what she has gone through.) But in spite of this she gets on well enough with her fellow X-Factor babies. But her closest friends are two of her classmates, Greer Wilson (whose parents are both doctors) and Ramon Alvarez, the son of a correspondent from a Filipino TV channel. As I could tell when I took the three plus Pru and Mike to a cinema around that time.

Hope noticed that I was cheerier after my return from the Bay State, but she and Pyro were the only ones. Of course it helped that X-Factor does not have a telepath on its roster.

I thought the affair was over, but then last Tuesday there came a phone call from Jean Grey. I had not expected her to call, and certainly not this soon, and if she called, I expected her to tell me that we should not ever see each other again. Instead, after a slightly awkward exchange of initial pleasantries, she abruptly asked me: "How would you like to come on a dirty weekend with me come Friday?"

I was so amazed that after a little while Jean asked: "Helloooo? You still there?"

Now the sex with Jean had been highly enjoyable and I also felt good about our long conversation the day before, but a reunion after such a short interval was not what I had envisaged.

In the end, I accepted the invitation despite my misgivings about reviving what I had wanted to write off as a once-off affair. I wasn't scared of being with Jean again, right? So we both came to this little New Hampshire town yesterday evening. It was so late that we didn't even have dinner together, we just went to our hotel room and immediately to bed.

Whilst it was not as exciting as the first time – what chance was there to revive the spontaneity of that afternoon and the dizzy anticipation raised by years of sexual self-denial? – it was very satisfying as a purely physical experience. Telepathy was still a no-go area, but Jean did make greater use of her telekinetic abilities and we went through a lot of variations until we fell asleep exhausted.

In spite of those exertions, I wake up early this morning. I rise and go to the bathroom for my ablutions. At my return she is still lying in bed, but I can tell she is awake, so I say: Rise and shine, my dear.

She slowly opens her eyes and the way her bright green irises emerge between her lids puts me in mind of a sunrise.

"Morning Raven," she says dreamily. She takes in my naked body as I begin to dress for breakfast and the corners of her eyes crinkle prettily as she smiles. "Did you sleep all right?"

"Oh yes, fell asleep as soon as my head hit my pillow. Good thing we only used the blanket before that," I add, distracted by what I see.

Jean turns from the side to her back and throws back the blanket. Her massive breasts lazily wobble into a different shape according to their new position. The pale white skin gleams in the morning sun as she stretches and yawns. She sinks back into her pillow and, noticing that my eyes are fixed to her bosom, gives me another puckish smile. I keep on staring.

"Glad you came here, are you?" she says. I feel my own smile broadening foolishly. Then I'm finished dressing and I sit down to watch her as she prepares for the day. Then we go outside.

The town center is a New England cliché – neat little streets, a plaque commemorating a local hero of '76 on the house next door, a memorial to the fallen of 'the War of the Rebellion' (Rogue would love this) before the white-steepled church, and brightly-colored leaves on the trees in and around the town. When I recall my younger days back in Europe I cannot seem to recall half the variety of shades of red and orange.

Over breakfast (we take it in a side-street delicatessen) I finally begin to ask her the questions that have been on my mind for weeks: "Why are you doing this? And why with me?"

"Oh dear, it's not like me at all, is it?" Jean frowns and rests her chin in her right hand, but her inflection is ironic. She looks me in the eye.

"It's not what I expected from you," I admit after a pause, but I only knew you from a distance. All this surprised me, and when I consider how you talk about Logan, I'm even more unsure why you cheat on him.

"I'm faithful to Logan in my fashion." It makes me a little uncomfortable that she answers telepathically, but I understand that she does not want anyone else in the deli to overhear what she now divulges. "Or perhaps it would be more precise to say: in his fashion."

The coin drops. "So you lead..."

"...an open kind of marriage," she completes my spoken sentence. "You can 'talk' to me in your mind without me prying in your inner thoughts, by the way. Telepathic communication at the surface level can even work if it is impossible to read a person's mind. That's what happened with Rogue when even the Professor couldn't breach the interference from the two personalities she had absorbed from Ms. Marvel."

I relax a little and sip on my second cup of coffee.

Jean leans back on her bench scratching her chin. "It's not what I expected to happen, but Logan can't help being who he is. Maybe things would have turned out differently with someone else. Sometimes I dreamed that if the Phoenix hadn't taken my place, Scott and I would have married and stuck it out without looking at other women and men until the end of our days. But Logan is not Scott. His urges are more powerful, he can't help reacting to a pretty face, and for a telepath that can become pretty hard. Mind you, I'm glad we have the link, it lets me know how truly he loves me, that his lust for a sexy woman or lingering affection for an old girlfriend simply can't compare. But that doesn't alter the fact that he has feelings that are not what I was taught to see as proper in a good husband."

"And Logan has had plenty of girlfriends," I think in Jean's direction.

"You don't know half of it," comes her reply.

Deep down in my inner self I think: I know more than you think. There is no visible reaction, so I'll assume my psychic shields are functioning and strong enough not to let out clues for Jean's telepathy to catch.

"The problem is not that Logan has such a colorful past, but that you never can predict when it will come next to haunt him and us. They did such a hatchet job on his memories before he was picked up by Department H that even he can be surprised when a former lover shows up with a kid in tow."

I could tell you stories, Jean, but it is probably kinder that I shut up.

"I sometimes have nightmares about a woman appearing at our doorstep to take him away from me because he was still her husband. And there's no way I or Logan can be sure that there isn't a wife somewhere in the world still waiting for him."

"Well, one can assume that after something like three decades she'll have given up," I 'say' encouragingly, which makes her laugh out softly.

"In any case, there were problems both because of the old girlfriends and the young women after whom he lusted. Logan sensed how I felt and tried to change, but that just led to more frictions because his... body resisted and without realizing it he began to resent me. His strong will, his willfulness, if you like, is part of what makes him who he is, it's also what helps him to overcome enemies who at first glance outmatch him. The situation improved when I became pregnant and had Mary, but then it became worse again and we had to face up to the problem. It became too much of a strain for him, he was getting desperate (if not for his healing factor, our sex life would have become very boring indeed). In the end I said I'd just have to learn to accept that I might not be able to fulfill all his sexual cravings and that he occasionally sought relief with other partners. So far it worked out well. It's not an ideal situation, but preferable to the alternative."

"I see, my friend, but now you're seeking relief from him. So you decided that what's sauce for the gander should also be sauce for the goose? In your generation it is no longer expected that a wife should overlook her husband's indiscretions..."

"No, definitely not. That would have been unbearable. We made it clear from the start that if he was free to have other partners so was I. It was only fair... Actually, at first was confident that it would be a bit one-sided and I looked forward to being rather smug around Logan. But then in the space of a few years my age began to tell. I passed my 40th birthday, a few hairs began to emulate my family name, and, well, suddenly I found the next generation was taking over the X-Men. My big sister's children are now my teammates, and my little sister's eldest is thinking of joining your team."

I nod, Nathan Summers, code-named Myrmidon, already visited our HQ to discuss the details. "Havok is looking forward to having his nephew with us."

"So I began to feel old, especially because Logan's healing factor keeps him from aging. Then there came a time when he had to go to Madripoor to sort out something with his pal Tyger Tiger which made me feel lonely as well, and so I went out and seduced me a sexy young man to prove to myself I still had what it takes."

I'd love to know details, but Jean laughs off my Mrs. Robinson jokes and says a lady does not kiss and tell, even if the affair was primarily sexual. All she will say is that she does not think that she was the first woman he had sex with, that she enjoyed their one-nighter but has no intention of another encounter with him.

"But you felt like a repeat performance with me," I reply, "I'm flattered."

She giggles daintily.

"I once was in a similar situation to yours, but from the other side," I continue on a different tack. "My metamorphic 'talent' keeps me young even though I am old enough to be your grandmother. When I lived with Irene Adler she grew old beside me, and there finally came a time when the physical aspects of our love fulfilled my appetites to a lesser extent than they had before – mostly because Irene felt less need for sex and there was less of it. She told me she did not mind if I looked for sexual gratification elsewhere – women of her generation were still expected to suffer patiently like Katherine Hepburn's mother in The Philadelphia Story. But it didn't work for me, after a brief fling or two I simply had to stop. I would flirt around a bit after that, but no more. I didn't play the field for real again until after she was killed. Maybe it would have been different if she and I had been able to link minds, I don't know."

"Thanks for reminding me that it's going to become worse."

"I'm sure you'll manage. If worst comes to worst, you can always telepathically make him believe you look as you did twenty years ago." Jean chuckles at this attempt at levity and the awkward moment passes. I'm not sure it was a good idea to drop all this onto her, but I am glad she will listen. "Valerie did not grow old enough for it to become a problem. She ... was more passionate than Irene anyway, I think her libido would have held out a lot longer. It might have become a lot more difficult with her. She'd have wanted to have my guts for garters if I had looked at other people... When she was in Rogue's body and there was no question of us making love, then she talked bravely about me having to look for someone new, but even then she sometimes could not hide that this thought did not come easy to her at all."

"Proud of that, aren't you?" her psychic voice whispers. "Methinks I'm beginning to understand you a little better. Beneath that cynical exterior you're a bit of a romantic."

"Nonsense," I snort, "I'm nothing if not a realist."

"So you say, but when I listen to you I think you deeply believe that love is for keeps and a commitment should last until death. Maybe even beyond the grave, I mean, when we have a little conversation you'll bring Irene Adler or Valerie Cooper into it before five minutes are out..."

"You could say that I definitely loved Valerie after she died," I grudgingly admit, "but love beyond the grave has an over-inflated reputation." What I keep to myself is the disappointment that haunts me on some sleepless nights that in the end Valerie sacrificed herself for Heloise without... what? What did I expect her to do? Maybe to take longer to decide to do what she did, to write me a more tearful farewell note? I know Val, I knew Val and her sense of what is right and what is wrong (so much stricter than my own, more pragmatic ethics). I can't even say she could have come to a different course of action without becoming untrue to the woman she was. More's the pity. All that I hide in the nooks and crannies of my mind and instead ask Jean again: Why did you choose me to have an affair with, and why do you want to continue it? When we first went to bed together I thought it had something to do with me and Logan having slept with each other before he married you, but now I'm not so sure.

"It is something I can't help remembering when we meet," Jean admitted. "But I never felt the irrepressible urge to knock boots with every girlfriend Logan ever had, if that's what you're driving at." She cheekily sticks out her tongue at me.

"Ah, so it's just me who's irresistible."

"In your dreams, my dear. No, I don't think it was just because I know about your past with Logan, although that was one of the things that first got me interested in you. And it wasn't about having sex with a woman either. I knew all about that... well enough at any rate... I'm afraid I was a bit naughty when I rediscovered my telepathy." Saints above, she's blushing!

"Using your powers for selfish ends," I think out 'loudly', "what would Professor Xavier say?"

"Well, I just 'listened' in on a few couples in the vicinity, I didn't make anyone do anything. I'm pretty sure." And Jean gives me a brief flash of some of her fears, of what she might do subconsciously, of what might happen if the terrors that lurk in the depths of her mind should rise to the surface, how she wonders how much of herself was in the original Phoenix when that nearly omnipotent being was corrupted. Maybe that is one of the factors that drew Jean and Logan together – they both have reasons to fear what they can become. But she returns to lighter matters: "Not that having sex with you didn't turn out to be a revelation..."

Nice of you to say so, I smirk. In our two get-togethers so far, Jean seemed intent on trying out everything in as short a time as possible, she had me as a man, a woman, and, to cap it off last night, 'half-and-half', as she so quaintly put it, when 'upstairs' our boobs were mashed together while 'downstairs' my temporary masculinity was buried deep inside her with a little telekinetic push to my backside. But I prefer it this way, primarily sexual.

"...but what also helped was that you and I don't really have a common history before this happened," she explains. "I was fascinated by you, and there was neither an old enmity between us that could get in the way, nor an old friendship to put at risk. So I felt a lot more comfortable about giving in to your advances."

For the rest of our stay together, we do not trouble ourselves with this serious kind of talk. We spend a leisurely weekend, then comes Sunday evening and the time to part. And without warning there is Wolverine standing on the other side of the street before our hotel, leaning on his motorcycle and lighting one of his cheap cigars in the characteristic fashion.

Jean is unperturbed: "Ah, there's my ride."

Well, she did not exaggerate about them leading an open marriage, even though we must reek of sex he is quite nonchalant when Jean 'introduces' us with a saucy "You two know each other, at least in the biblical sense."

That's not a pang of jealousy I feel when the two embrace in a long kiss? Surely not. I'm not in love with her, Jean and I came here to satisfy a more primitive need. She said this is what she wants, and it seems to work for her. I see again what a sexy beast he is. There certainly is something both erotic and feral about the way he inhales his mate's scent. Are you putting on a show for me?

As they break apart, back goes the burning cigar to his mouth. He notices my gaze and looks at me with a big grin, almost as if he is applauding his wife's choice of extracurricular bedmate. But there is something else about his expression that puts me in mind of our wild night together all those years ago.

The emotions that causes in me leave me off-balance to some extent, so Jean's ensuing question catches me flat-footed: "Would you mind terribly if I show Logan my memories of what we did in bed?"

I have to take a big gulp of air before I croak: "If you think it's a good idea." But in my mind I almost scream out: Don't you dare tell him of our breakfast conversation yesterday! She understands.

What is Jean's game? Why didn't she tell me that he would come here? But I regain my composure quickly enough. After all, it only comes down to facing up in person to a reality that I already knew is accepted by the three persons concerned. Did Jean intend this as a kind of gambit, an indication of things to come? Now that I come to think of it, that would open the door to all kinds of interesting developments.

Back home in Georgetown I have a little time to clear the decks before Rogue brings Hope back from Snug Valley in the Alleghenies (or Alligator Mountains, as Hope used to pronounce them when she was little). What would Rogue think if she knew the real reason why I had her take in her youngest sister over the weekend? I have some suspicions, so I hope she won't find out, but will I manage to keep this affair a secret if I continue it?

When the two arrive a few hours later, Hope is in very cheerful spirits. She always enjoys flying with Rogue and she looks as if she also had quite an active time in West Virginia. As soon as she touches the ground and before she has finished taking off the harness that links her to Rogue on long-distance flights, she begins to chatter about the bicycle excursions she did with Harriet and Heloise and J.B. LeBeau, Rajinder Shaara and Pia DaCosta in the lower slopes of the Alleghenies. Heloise, she tells me, is very sporty and competitive, always determined to stay ahead of her playmates even if they are older than she. In that she is very much like her sister Valerie, I have to think by myself. These days she lives with the Shaaras a lot – Rogue may talk about Valerie significantly less than I do, but even that can be often enough to get on her nerves.

The Trouble With Love Beyond the Grave