This is a work of fiction. Names, chracter, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are the property of MARVEL COMICS ENTERTAINMENT GROUP and their respective creators. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, actual business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental or covered under my Act of God Insurance. (Didn't think they sold that on eBay, didja?) If you love it, tell me. If you hate it, tell me. If you think it's pure genius or pure crap, tell me. But be honest. That's all I ask. E-mail me at < kitty_pryde_x@hotmail.com > This story is told by Kitty Pryde of the X-MEN, and it takes place before the breakup of eXcalibur, before Pete Wisdom left Muir Island, and before Onslaught. It starts out with Kitty returning to the mansion. VOS GEVEN IZ GEVEN UN NITO -------------------------- by sydney September 8, 2000 "I used to call this story 'Bauhaus Goes to Athens'-- some readers will see why." -Poppy Z. Brite- I take one look at the place, and BANG! There it is. I'm home, and there's no fighting it. There's no denying. Seven years ago, I pulled up in a Checker cab, bags packed, bulging, and me in my bell-bottoms, for God's sake... There I sat on that front porch until they all came home- From a funeral. I should've know... Actually, my years here, as hard as they were, as frustrating, as painful, as back-breaking, as traumatic, as heroing, as bloody, and as mind-boggling as they've been... They were worth it. They really were. That's why, as I stand here, looking at the front porch, as I let the memories wash over me, I realize, and say with complete honesty, that I am home, and there's no denying. I stop the car and get out. As I slam the door, it makes a hollow echo that tells me, instantly, that no one is home. Not in the Med-Lab, not in the underground tunnels, not even out on the grounds, way out there, by Devlin's Cove. Everyone's out, maybe in Siberia, maybe in the Savage Land, maybe in outer space... But there's no one in the mansion. No one to let me in. That's all right. The retina scan and bio scan still recognize me. The computers let me in. I could have just sat there with my suitcase like I did all those years ago, and wait for them to let me in. But I'm a grown up now. A real honest to God adult. An adult... Without keys. Though, that's to be expected, since I don't actually live here anymore. I live in Scotland- Hardly Scotland. Muir Island, miles and miles from the mainland. I think my room is still somewhat they way I left it, what's it been, six, seven years ago? My Lila Chenny World Tour '79 posters have been taken down, of course, folded up and packed, and hung back up in my room on Muir. The books, AP computer science, AP Physics, AP Metaphysics, AP ... Never mind. They're in Scotland, too, along with my mementos, my old uniforms from the days I used to call myself Sprite- Yeah, that was a stealthy career move- and, of course, my computer equipment, revamped and upgraded. It's all been moved out to allow for a guest room for visiting sister team members... Visitors like myself, I suppose. There are just so many emotions that... Stick to the walls around here. It's hard to just stand here and LET them rush back INTO you. I let them, though. I let them, because they are mine. Even the ones I hate... They belong to me, they belong to us, they belong to the X-Men. We're a family, and even though we hurt sometimes, we manage to hold it all together. And in the worst times, that gives me strength. My room. Exactly how I left it, only with more dust and fewer lava lamps. It still smells like coffee and mothballs. I drop my bag there, in the doorway, thinking no one will mind that I'm using my old room again, and wander down to the kitchen for a drink. The familiar twists and turns of the hallway. The red carpeted stairs, which I count one at a time, are still there, all twenty four of them. The plants, new but in the same old spots. The cat, the cat that everyone feeds because no one thinks anyone else feeds him. The wall of "family photos" that need a good dust. The photo of a "company barbecue" on whose dust-covered glass someone, probably Bobby Drake, drew a happy face and on whose frame stuck a yellow Post-It saying "same time next aeon." All landmarks on the way to the kitchen. If you stare into the X-Men's restaurant sized fridge long enough, you will eventually warp your mind into another dimension. The desolate expanse of the commercial use Fridgidair is so great that time and space actually work differently in there. You can always reach that other dimension simply because no one ever has time to go shopping. Everyone's too busy saving the world, you know? There is a six- currently five pack of diet Pepsi on the top shelf, a carton of eggs, and a box of baking soda on the bottom rack. On the door, there are twelve bottles of water and one bottle of champagne. I grin. I remember those days. I play nice and grab a Pepsi, knowing full well how thirsty those who return will be. I wander down to the War Room and check the maps on the wall. They all concentrate on the Middle East. I'm not surprised. There've been a rash of embassy bombings throughout the area, not just American- All of them. There are computer printouts, diagnostics on the Blackbirds Gold and Blue. Full assault, as far as I can tell, especially since there is no one left in the mansion. "Computer, please identify all X-Men on premises. Include the grounds and sub levels." There's a chirp and a whirr as the system processes. "Designate, Katherine Pryde, current location, War Room. There are no other X-Men present." That means the Professor is gone, too. He's not necessarily with the X-Men in combat, but still. *I* am alone, just like the car door said I was. I hop into the flight simulator- the one in the game room, not the one we use for training- Well, I always used this one for training. I take a last swig of my drink as I select my name from the long list of players. It's not hard. I'm at the top of the list. My score is one digit longer than anyone else's. It's not a sense of pride that I feel. It's a sense of futility. The little red and green targets, the dodging of bullets and missiles, the canyons, the mountains, the dive bombing... What does it amount to? Your name and eight numbers at the top of the screen, that's what. Look at this room. Video games. Board games. Playing cards, pool table, ping pong. Children's toys for a bunch of grown ups who never did. Not really. Oh, we've got our integrity and our loyalty and our nobility and our responsibility and our expansive knowledge of the universe and all things working... But inside, where it hurts, we are little children who want to forget how old we've all become. And we attempt to find a balance in here, with these toys. "Being but men, we walked into the trees, afraid, letting our syllables be soft, for fear of coming noisily into a world of wings and cries. If we were children, we might climb, catch the rocks sleeping and break no twig, and after the soft accent, thrust our heads above the branches to wonder at the unflailing stars. Out of confusion, as the way is, and the wonder that man knows out of the come bliss that, then, this loveliness, we said, children in wonder, watching the stars, is the aim in the end. Being but men, we walked into the trees." It's one of my favorite poems. Dylan Thomas. Because of our X-Factors, we entered this world children, destined to grow up too soon and leave the brevity of the climb sooner than other normal children. I suppose those eight numbers of my score... They're an attempt at mixing the two worlds. They're a symbol of defiance in the face of growing up. And a sign of resentment. There's a rumble that I recognize as the broken stealth system of the Black Bird... Blue, I would assume? It's followed by a higher pitched noise, one that screams "only one engine." I climb out of the video game without saving my score, only to be shot down by Russian Migs before I even get out of the room. The trip to the hanger is brief, and I note the various upgrades that Hank has made to the high-speed transport tunnel over the years. Hell, when I was here, we all had to RUN to the hanger bay for God's sake... The doors open and I smell napalm and blood. The engines are badly damaged, and so are two X-Men. Scott's already shouting orders and I can see his arm is in a homemade sling. It looks like it's made out of someone else's uniform. That wouldn't surprise me. There are Med-supplies here in the hanger, and I open up the cabinets and pull out two stretchers. Scott finally sees me and yells something to the effect of "Get those the hell over here!" I can hardly hear him over the groaning and creaking of the BlackBird Gold. As it taxies in behind the Blue, I spot Ororo Munroe behind the controls. Storm. She's like my mother. I'm relieved to see that she is not among the seriously injured. This time. I roll one stretcher over to the bay door where Bobby Drake, Iceman, intercepts it and helps Jean Grey place Remy LeBuea's lifeless body upon it. I see Gambit give a ragged breath and, as the blood trickles from his hairline, he turns his head to whisper "Rogue." She's right behind him, flying from the plane. "Ah'm right here, shug." She turns to Scott. "Cyclops?" She silently begs with her eyes to accompany Gambit. "Go!" he screams over the final roaring flair of the landing thrusters. "Take Bobby- And Kitty! Welcome home! Go with them!" I resist saluting and run after the trio headed for the Med-Lab. Behind me, there are shouts, more orders, and a feeling of deja'vu all over again. There were some tense moments in the Med-Lab. Not only had Gambit had some serious head trauma, but he had lost gross amounts of blood. His left lung had collapsed. Rogue, despite her inability to touch a person flesh to flesh, is very well versed in emergency medicine, and she and I and Bobby take care of Gambit. I tubed his chest, and she hurried to prepare a CT scan so we could assess his brain damage. Meanwhile, across the room, spaced so we could all work, is Warren Worthington III, Angel, who has some broken bones, a lot of abrasions, and is currently unconscious. In under three minutes, Gambit is stable- Critical, but he's not getting any worse. Rogue shoots me a grateful look, and I smile back. Despite the hopeful look in her eye, I know Rogue is shaking inside. She and Gambit are so in love, it's almost overwhelming. I don't think that their unrequited love could sustain them if either one were to... Mrmm. Don't say things like that. It's against company policy. Just, concentrate on the heart monitor... Concentrate on the beeping. Hours of beeping It's about three in the afternoon. You'd be surprised how much the X-Men can accomplish before lunch. There are several areas of the house that are now occupied. In the Med-Lab, there're Hank and Rogue, of course, along with Psylocke, who is currently involved with Warren. In the War Room, Scott, Storm, and the Professor are reviewing the battle. Jean, I think, is in her room, resting. Apparently, she used her powers so extensively that she was half-passing out on the ride home. Still she managed to take care of Gambit all the while. Iceman is in the game room, playing... Something loud. Wolverine... He's in the Danger Room, getting his ya-ya's out. Everyone's in his or her respective corner, recovering in his or her own way. I'm downstairs in the living room watching the international news coverage of the day's events in the Middle East. Usually, I would pop in a tape out of habit, but the Communications Room now records all the news stations and saves them in ninety-six hour roll over archives. My cell phone rings, and I mute the TV. "Kitty Pryde." "Katzchen? It's Kurt." "Hi, honey! What's goin' on?" "Oh, nothing much. Just watching the news..." "You, too?" I half-smile. "Our teammates have had a busy day, yes?" "Very." "I trust they are all well." I make a little growling noise in my throat- That sound that usually precedes bad news that has the potential of getting better, but not for a good long while. "Actually, Gambit's laid up downstairs. Pulmonary. Neuro. And Warren- He's bleedin' and broken. But everyone else is just... Recovering. What's up with eXcalibur?" "We just got back from Australia, actually." The grin on his face spirited over the phone. "Reeeally!? And what were you doing down under, mate?" "A bit of a scuffle with Magneto, actually!" "Magneto!? What the hell was HE doing down there?!" "It's a long story. Actually, the fight wasn't so much with HIM as it was with some bent out of shape Acolytes." "Great..." "Seems they're mobilizing. Katzchen, you will want to keep an eye on this as well." "Sure thing." "And keep the X-Men informed, though I'm sure they probably know about it. That's it for now." "Okay, no problem. As soon's Scott, Storm, and the Prof. finish with each other, I'll talk to them." "Thanks. Hey." "Yeah?" "Peter's okay, by the way." "Thank you, Kurt. Goodbye..." And I hang up on him. Peter and I had a fight before I left. We hardly said goodbye. That's a bad idea when you do the work we do. You always want to say goodbye, even if you hate someone, in case you don't get to do it some other time. Just then, Rogue comes into the room, a water bottle in her hand and a weary look in her eyes. She smiles and sits down next to me. "How's he doin'?" "He's sleeping. Hank gave him some Demerol. Thanks, Kitty." "No problem." And we sit in silence, watching the CNN coverage of the day. It's dinner time. The whole afternoon... It didn't exist. We just waited around until the evening came. Under the cover of night, we could finally relax. I know I wasn't in the fight, but I've been in so many of them that I've been conditioned to fall into the post battle comedown. There is an influx of people in and out of the kitchen. No one cooks. There is only scavenging. There's cereal in the cupboards. Some junk food. Probably a few TV dinners in the freezer. Two or three X-Men are going out. They asked me to come, but, since I didn't share the fight... I just think it'd be better if I stayed here for now. I've been feeling more and more like an outsider lately. I talked to the Professor and Scott and Storm about the business in Australia. It was brief. They didn't seem surprised. As Storm and I leave, I hear them talking about how Magneto and the Acolytes have butted heads before, blah, blah, blah... It all runs together. Storm interrupts my blaz`e. "Would you like to have dinner out with me tonight? We can go anywhere you would like." I think about the offer for a minute and shake my head. "I'm sorry, Ororo. I know I hardly went through a fraction of what you guys have... Jet lag," I shrug. "It's been a long day." "I understand." She smiles benevolently and touches my shoulder. "We will talk later, yes?" "Of course! I could never come home and not see you! Uhm, I promised Rogue that I'd go and check on Gambit tonight. And I have to talk to Moira back home, some work with Hank. Sorry." I apologize again, which isn't necessary. We part at the end of the hallway. She heads up the attic, her loft space, open and free to comfort her claustrophobia. I turn and head for the elevator that can take me down to the Med-Lab. There are few things in this world that bother me anymore. One. Racists and bigots. 'Nuf said. Two. Those who refuse to accept that bad things can get better with hard work and faith. Three. A bloody, battered X-Man. Under the cover of night, I return to the game room. The hum of the games in sleep mode keep me company. I roll a piece of ice in my mouth. I let it freeze my tongue, my lips, my teeth... I swallow it and let it freeze my throat, my esophagus, my stomach. I take another sip of Scotch, and start to cry. It's five in the morning and I hardly slept a wink. Maybe an hour, tops. It's okay. I've gone without before. It's not a problem. I have a nine-thirty meeting with the Professor, so I think I'll see if anyone wants to have breakfast out later. SOMEone's still on an after battle high, I'm sure. I slept in an old XAVIER INSTITUTE T-shirt last night. Grey and faded, its red print is cracking. It's still soft and it fits, so I shouldn't complain. Standing there, looking in the mirror, I dissect myself. My hair I cut short, cadet short, a little while back, because I thought I needed a change of some sort. I haven't showered yet, so it's half bed head, half gel nightmare. My face is creased where it was shoved into a pillow all night. I'm pasty from lack of sleep; there are circles under my eyes that seem to have become part of my face, they've been there so long. I wipe my mouth, dry and sticky from not being brushed, on the back of my wrist. As I lean over the dresser and peer into the mirror, I wonder if this nineteen year old face would have the same worry lines, the same circles, if it had stayed home in Chicago when it was thirteen. Or would things be worse? Would someone I have grown to love be dead if I had never become an X-Men? What did I ever do for the X-Men? What did they ever do for me? Jesus, I can't stand here and look myself in the eye and think those things... What the hell is my problem? I pull on some jeans, my sandals, and head downstairs. Wolverine is skulking around the kitchen, shaking boxes and tipping bottles to see what and how much is left. A growl echoes through the room, and I doubt that it's his stomach. "Logan?" "Hey, kid. I was wondering when you were gonna come in." I smile. The guy can smell you coming- especially if you haven't showered... I walk over and hug him, tight. "I missed you. A lot." "I missed you, too, kid." Kid. I'm almost twenty, and I'm a kid... ->Humph<- "You wanna come with me t'breakfast? Anywhere you wanna go. Even Harry's. Especially Harry's." "You eat last night?" "No. Did you?" "No. Okay. If you really wanna spend time with a dirty, sweaty, tired, old man." "I hang out with Brian Braddock, Kurt Wagner, and Pete Wisdom all day. Three of the smelliest, sweatiest, dirtiest men I can THINK of. I think I can handle one of you." So, as we fly down the back roads (after we both take our showers) we are silent in our reconnections to each other. We were more than hero and sidekick. We were partners. We were good partners. And then we had to split up. He needed to find himself, and that didn't include me. I was asked to help lead up eXcalibur. We just... But it was for the best. Sometimes the bond that grows between two X-Men is best severed before it grows too strong. It hurts... But sometimes, it's the only way to save you from future hurts. Life takes you in different directions, and if you can't go with the flow, you either get left behind, or ripped apart in the currents. Sometimes, you have to make a preemptive strike. We slide into the back corner booth, the one the X-Men favor on late Saturday nights-almost-mornings. The red vinyl that used to squeak now gives under our weight as we slide into the corner together. I snuggle up against his shoulder and breathe in deeply. His aftershave, light but familiar, fills my senses. The dusty cigar smoke that seems to actually eminate from his body mixes in, and I get two sensations- One is sharp, camphor, the other, soft, sweet. I smile up at him and he kisses me on the top of the head with a chuckle. He puts his arm around me, and I settle in close to the layers of leather and flannel and denim. I can hear his heart, feel his heart. And in an instant, I am home, under his arm, close to my friend, my partner, my surrogate father. And for as lousy as I've been feeling lately, for as painful as it was seeing Gambit and Warren injured, as frightening as it's been thinking about the evil that spreads across this world every day... I have this corner booth for this one morning with someone I love. He orders his usual- A T-bone steak, three runny eggs, and coffee- Not a pot, because he likes to flirt with the waitress who serves the refills. I order my sissy-in-comparison-breakfast of a bowl of Wheaties, sliced fruit and cottage cheese, and orange juice. We eat in somewhat-silence, as usual. The coffee at the end is when we talk- current events, what they mean to the X-Men, the relationships of the other X-Men, how our lives have changed because we are X-Men... Then, sometime after our third cup, sometimes before, we stop kidding ourselves and talk soup. We're not JUST X-Men. We're human beings. And we're confused. And frustrated. "How's it feel? Bein' home after so long?" It's been three years since I've been back to the Mansion. "Strange. Like I'm walking through the Looking Glass. Backwards. With my eyes shut." "You see a Jabberwocky, you call me." "Will do..." I drink half of my cup of coffee and think. "Logan?" "Yeah?" "Did you ever sit around with a bunch of other X-Men, and just feel like you didn't belong there? And not like in the beginning, when you were new. But recently?" Logan lights up a cigar and puffs thoughtfully. He clears his throat and looks up at me. "That how you're feelin', darlin'?" "Every now and then." "M-hmm." He puffs again. "What about over at Muir Island? You feel like that there?" "Sometimes, when I've got nothing else to think about." "Mmrmm." He sits back and thinks for what feels like forever. Really, forever. He's taking his time with this. "Me, too, honey. Me, too." And we sit for a good long while before either of us speaks again. "When I first started out here, with Chuck an' Storm, an' all the others... I didn't know how t'live. Not with real people. Not with a family. But... Even though it took years o' bustin' my butt, they finally got it in m'ol'cnuckle head that I DID have a place in that house. Sometimes, it was saying nothin' 'bout nothin'. Other times, it was fightin' along side of 'em. Sometimes, it was lettin' other people help me, an' helpin' other people." "But are you happy?" I blurt out. I'm not in the mood to hear this. I can't take another speech about how wonderful it is to be an X-Man. I just want somebody to tell me that it's okay to feel like this- Feel lost in a house you grew up in. I want him to tell me that it gets better. I don't want to think that Logan, too, can't see the forest for the trees. "Are you happy in that house? With the X-Men? Are you happy with yourself, and everything you've done? Or do you just live, from day to day, like there's no possibility of anything else in life?" "What're you gettin' at, Kitty? You thinkin' o'breakin' ranks?" "No, I just..." And I stop. Because, there are no words left that can ever explain how I feel. I can never tell them, not even Logan, how restless and sad I am. How depressed I get every night, especially when I'm alone. Why last night wasn't my first sleepless night... Why I've been fighting insomnia for the last two years. Why I've taken to drinking scotch and smoking cigarettes when no one else is around to find out, and why I feel like such a hypocrite when I scold Peter. I don't have enough words to explain why I want to take a bat to that flight simulator. Why I want to throw rocks at that front door. Why I want to scream when I walk past those dusty pictures or those potted plants. The futility, the struggles... All that energy- Couldn't we just... Couldn't we... Isn't there SOMEthing ELSE...? What... Why're... I choke back my tears. Jesus, what's my problem? Why can't I just disappear into that haze of honor and glory and selflessness and the high of battle and... Why can't I be like the rest of them? Why can't I be like everyone else? And I realize why I'm about to cry. I'm an outsider in my home, not because I don't live there, or because I cleared myself out of my room... My name on a video game, the "Welcome home's," the invites to dinner, the familiarity, the pictures... It doesn't compensate for the fact that I don't FEEL like them. I don't THINK like them anymore. I don't share with them the same passion. Why, Jesus, why am I even here anymore!? I don't even belong with my own kind anymore... I look up at Logan and hold back the scream that comes with the futility of an explanation. It just won't come. No words... Nothing. "Logan..." He searches my eyes, waits patiently, mentally coaxes me into saying SOMETHING, ANYTHING! "Logan, I'm sorry." "Fer WHAT, darlin'?" "For... " And my eyes well up with the tears of confusion. "For not... Trying hard enough. For not trying to... Hold on?" "Hold on?" Every time I try to think, to explain, I just dig the hole deeper. "I got home yesterday, and I was thinking about how that house's always been my home- How I know it, and I love it... And then I just stopped. Somewhere along the line, I just stopped feeling like I always did. I stopped feeling that FIRE that the other X-Men have inside of them. To fight. To never give up. It's like a piece of me DIED- And for no reason. And I LET it! I just stopped believing..." I'm trying to keep it all together inside, trying not to bawl my eyes out. I'm trying not to make a scene, when all I want to do is trash the place. Don't I love it here? Don't I love the wood paneling, the pool tables, the vinyl seats, the smell of beer and fries mixing with the smoke and the laughter? Don't I love it here? Why do I want to tear it up? Why do I want to burn down the Mansion? Why do I hate the idea that I have to go back there? What IS it in ME that just wants to SCREAM?! "Kitty, c'mon." He's thrown a fifty on the table and is standing over me, holding my hand, nodding towards the door. His cigar is smoldering in the ash tray and I watch the smoke swirl up into the shape of a lop-sided heart before my vision is clouded with tears. The ride home is slower, less thrilling and adrenaline-powered. It's not until Logan passes the third right off St. Andrew's that I realize that we're not headed home. "Where are we going?" I manage to ask through my ragged breathing. "Don't you worry 'bout that. You just calm down, an' stop thinkin' you gotta make sense of it all." And with that said, I curl up in my seat, my knees tucked to my chin, my head against the glass, the radio on low on some classic rock station. And all the trees we pass, all the trees melt into one long strip of green as I close my eyes against the world. "If you look hard enough, you can see the ocean," he whispers, pulling me closer to his side. "And if you listen real hard... You can even hear it." Way out there, way far out, across the acres of woods and the suburbs, and the houses and streets, there is a thin line- A thin line of blue and gold melting into each other. A soft ripple tells you that it really is the ocean. We're so high up, I feel like we could fall back down to earth if we miss one step, trip or waiver on this hill. It would take four or five people to link fingers and form a chain around the trunk of this gigantic tree that we're sitting under. It's so old, Logan tells me, that it was actually here before HE was, which makes it ancient, really. It's gnarled and knotted. There are scars across it, scars that come in threes, scars that match Wolverine's claws. There are initials carved into its bark. There are limbs that have been sheered off for one reason or another. There is a worn patch of bark above a worn patch of earth where Logan and I sit now. "Listen close," he says again. I shut my eyes. There, in the distant traffic of the interstate. There, in the horns honking. There, even in the birds singing and the wind blowing and the voices in my head telling me that it will never be okay, I hear it. I hear the ocean. It's impossible, I think, to hear something so far away so clearly. I shake my head. "I'm hallucinating. You can't possibly hear it from here!" "You can. You do, right now, don't you? I know you do." I shake my head again, this time in a disbelief that stems from his faith in me. "How did you ever..." "Find this place?" "Yes." "How d'you find answers t'anythin' in life? You want it bad enough, you find it. It'll either come t'you, or you t'it, but you find it." How does this man, so complex, so lost, so angry, have it all together? How did he become the one in control, and I the one who was falling apart? When did we switch roles? And suddenly, I feel the guilt rush over me. My face grows red with pure embarrassment. "Oh, God..." "What's the matter?" You! I want to scream. YOU'RE the one with real problems! You don't know your past, your family- Your memories aren't even your own! And I'm having the breakdown! I'm crying my eyes out! Why are you comforting me? "How can you be so good to me? After all you've been through? Your life's been so much harder than mine could EVER be! How do you keep GOING!?" He sits back again and thinks, then looks at me with a half-smile. "I never knew too much 'bout God, I'll admit that. But y'don't gotta go t'no church t'know who's lookin' out fer ya. S'been a lifetime o'shovin' stuff down inside," he says. "A lifetime of denial, of regrets. Y'keep GOIN' by admitting t'yerself that you're NOT in control- Not all the time, anyways. You're not s'posed t'get it all. Sometimes, even, you're not s'posed t'be happy, either." "I feel like a stranger to the X-Men," I finally say. "Like they're part of a group that I don't hang out in anymore because I don't like their politics- I just CHANGED," I sob. "You an' everyone else. Y'know why y'don't feel like it's home no more? Cuz no one else does either. I'll let you in on a little secret, Kitty. We're all chompin' at the bit, trynna figure it out. It's like we all woke up one mornin' an' couldn't figure out how we got there. S'more than the house- It's what we all been through. We all saw the same stuff, heard the same battle cries. We're all... Tired. Some of us, more'n others." He rubs my shoulder and nuzzles my hair. "You're not alone. Guess you just admitted it to yourself before everybody else did. You think Rogue likes sittin' there, watchin' the Cajun breathin' through tubes? Think Warren likes havin' a concussion? Jean's so tired, she didn't even get up this mornin', and everyone else-" He stops abruptly and then sighs. "Everyone else is tired, too, Kitty. We're all tired. We all want OUT. But we can't leave." He shakes his head, and I almost think I hear his voice catch. "We can't give up. What can we do? This is th' hand we been dealt, pun'kin." It's quiet for a few minutes, then I slowly nod into his chest. "Can we stay up here a little while longer? I don't wanna go home just yet." "Sure, we can. We can stay up here as long's you want." But I know we can't. Because I want to stay up here forever. I want to stay up here... Forever. But the real world needs us. The homo sapiens who hate us NEED us. The X-Men need us to help them save the word, again. The world demands our return. So futility looms at the bottom of the hill, but I'm not ready to face it yet. No, not yet. Not alone. Not even with Logan beside me, I can't stare into that abyss of a life-long membership under the mighty X. I just want to fall asleep here, under the big oak tree, under Logan's arm, away from everyone, and everything and never wake up. We've been gone all morning, Logan and I. Gone from the people, but not the pain, I think. It's still there, this unhappiness inside of me. It's the painful realization that I will never get back this bit of me that I lost over all the years here. That's what it is... That sick feeling I get every night. That dizziness. That nausea. That feeling like I just want to put a gun to my head... I'm just so sad... All the time. I look over to the driver's seat where Logan sits, driving lazily with one arm, the other one out the window. If anyone understands being depressed all the time, being sad and angry and confused all the times, it's Logan. Stop feeling guilty. Stop locking him out because you don't think he should HAVE to help you. He's your partner. He's your friend. He practically raised you. Why can't I tell him? Why can't I just tell him... Every time I go into a fight, I secretly wish that I will get blasted into the next life. I keep hoping that I get taken down, so that I can die with some sense of honor instead of the shame of giving up, the shame of doing it myself. And so, as we drive back to the place that I once called home, and now call hell, I curl up again, with my knees to my chest, my forehead against the glass, and watch all the world turn to one big streak of green. We pull into the drive, pull right in front of the Mansion. He knows I don't want to come back here, but I have to. My meeting with the Professor, which is in ten minutes, is an important one. It's business. It has to be done to keep the world spinning. Screw it. Screw it all. Logan's gone to park the car and I am alone. I will myself not to cry, not again, and bite my lip to keep myself from screaming as I open the front door. There's the staircase, with the red carpeting. The plants. The cat curled up under the table that holds eighty framed snapshots. Everything. I pass it all on the way back to my room. I start shoving things down, into the duffel bag. Clothing, books, papers, all of it. I want to go leave the minute I'm done with the Professor. Jesus. How am I going to get past HIM?! How can I possibly get through that one little bitch of a meeting without him wanting to know why I'm so upset!? He can't force me to tell him, and he can't probe my mind without my permission- It's a cardinal rule around here. But, how do I get through this when.... When he's part of who and what I'm running from? You will, I tell myself. As hard as it is, you can do it. What's that?! A glimmer of faith in myself? It's fleeting, but it's not dead yet. And neither am I. So, I go into my bathroom, splash some ice cold water on my face, and get on with it, like they subconsciously teach you to do around here. Maybe it won't be so bad. Maybe I can just pack up and leave like Brian did that one time. And like Wolverine's done a thousand times. No one will really notice- not for long. Maybe no one will care because everyone's too busy figuring things out for themselves. So, forget it. Forget it; I can be pissed later. Let's just get through this now, and I can scream later. Funny. That's been my credo for the last couple'a years... The meeting was a complete farce. It was twenty-two minutes of me being far too business-like with the Professor, and far too evasive when he finally did ask me what, if anything, was wrong. Don't ever try to lie to a telelpath. It just leads to the embarrassment of denying something the both of you know is true. So, for some reason, because he's the Professor, I suppose, he lets it go. He lets me go. He lets me leave the Mansion a day early, because he knows he can't keep me here anymore. My rent-a-car is sitting in the side drive, ready to go. Logan is sitting on the trunk, waiting, smoking. "Knew you were in a hurry. Just wanted t'make sure I said g'bye." You should always say goodbye, I think to myself. Just in case. I even wrote Storm a note, lying, telling her that I was called back early, and we'll do lunch sometime. "Would've looked for you if you hadn't looked for me," I reply. He hops off the car and I pop the trunk. As I settle my bag in, I look up at his dark eyes, his tired, lined face. I realize that he's right. I'm not the only one who feels like this. I'm just the only one who's doing anything about it. I'm the one who broke free of the denial. "You be careful drivin', honey. You're still upset." "I'll be careful, I promise. You be careful, too." I hug him fiercely, and he holds me tight. I'm trying to hang on to this for just another few moments, another few minutes, just so I can take some of it with me. The cigar smoke, the aftershave, the soft leather and flannel and denim... I'm trying to hang on to the one thing that still makes me the tiniest bit happy. "You keep in touch," he orders. Suddenly his mouth goes to my ear. "With me, an' yerself," he adds in a whisper. I nod as I step away. "Thank you, Logan." He nods back. For a man who doesn't know himself all that well, he has an astounding grasp on others. I get in the car and drive off past the house. I don't even look back at it. Out of the corner of my eye, I see in the rear view mirror- Logan is stalking back into the woods. His cigar smoke is trailing behind him, like a litany of thoughts pluming from his brain. Like a trail of emotions that he doesn't want to take with him, but that he can never leave behind. And it is in this way that we all live. Permit me to unburden my heart. Whether I talk sense or whether I talk from sadness, I suffer from a disease that is not called an illness. They call it old age. It gnaws and it yearns. What was, was -- and is no more. That year, that hour is already gone. How quickly youthful happiness flees and you can't catch it again. -David Meyerowitz- "Vos geven iz geven un nito" (What Was Was, and Is No More) There's all the pain in the way she talks All the pain in the way she walks All the pain in her wave good bye All the pain in the way she smiles -BUSH- "Insect Kin" It's all in the way that we know we could have it all Some satellites of pain can't always be ignored. It's all in the face of what we thought we knew before War on all sides War on all sides Keep on driving Hair left morning wet There's nothing like losing you There's nothing like losing you -BUSH- "Straight No Chaser" It's like a dream you try to remember but it's gone An' when ya scream, it only comes out as a yawn When you try to see the world beyond your front door Pinch me Pinch me -BNL- "Pinch Me" Cuz when you live in a world and it gets down to who you thought you'd be... And now I laugh at how the world changed me I think life chose me After all -Dar Williams- "After All"