X-Men: The Last Stand (7 page)

The estate had been in Xavier’s family since this part of New York—roughly an hour north of the City—had still been considered Indian Country. Considering the locale, its size was remarkable: three miles along the shore of Breakstone Lake and a mile inland, in upper Westchester County hard by the border of neighboring Putnam County and the state of Connecticut just to the east. Most of the property had never been developed, beyond the immediate vicinity of the great house itself, and still essentially remained virgin Hudson Valley forest.

The Mansion itself had been built during the so-called Gilded Age of the late nineteenth century, by an ancestor who wanted to prove himself on a par with the Vanderbilts and the Goulds and the Astors. It was an attempt to construct outside Salem Center a home that would rival, and preferably surpass, what was filling the Newport shoreline in Rhode Island.

What resulted was a monument to wealth that beggared modern conceptions of the term but also exemplified rather extraordinary good taste. No expense had been spared in the Mansion’s construction, while at the same time neither owner nor builders ever lost sight of the fact that they were creating a home that was actually to be
lived
in. Something that the residents might actually
enjoy,
more than a proclamation of excess.

The main building rose a total of four stories above the knoll on which it was built (including the topmost turret, which Kitty had immediately claimed for her own), allowing for a commanding view of the surrounding countryside. There were also three full levels
below,
for staff facilities—which proved a godsend to Charles Xavier when the time came to adapt the building to the needs of both his planned school and the X-Men who would grow from it. A multitude of secret passages were left over from Prohibition by a more recent ancestor who financed the upkeep with some rather high-end bootlegging. Considering the mansion’s recent history, which included a full-scale armed assault by a cadre of Black Ops paramilitarists, in addition to the everyday wear and tear from scores of energetic youngsters with superpowers, the house had held up incredibly well.

After Kitty’s gossipy report on the exchange between Ororo and Logan, Rogue and Bobby came up the elevator on their own. Kitty was the resident geek, and she often seemed far more comfortable with the server array that ran the Danger Room than with the students who used it. She could invariably be found either down in the catacombs or up in her room, but rarely in between, outside of mandated classes. She hung a lot with her partner in crime, Doug Ramsey, whose mutant skill with languages made his facility for writing software code the perfect complement to her intuitive brilliance with hardware, and there were also rumors of a long-distance friendship with Peter’s kid sister Illyana, back in Russia. But beyond that, Kitty pretty much kept to herself.

Bobby actually didn’t mind her absence. Rogue was in a foul mood and he was determined to ferret out the cause, and then hopefully stomp it to death. He cared too much for her and hated seeing her so torn up inside. So he pushed and pushed as they rode the elevator and finally she caved, spitting the words out like bullets.

“What’s wrong,” she announced in that tone of hers which suggested she was annoyed to have to be stating the obvious, “is that I can’t touch my boyfriend without killing him. Other than that, I’m wonderful.”

Wasn’t much he could say to that, considering it was mostly true. With tutelage and practice, she’d gained a measure of control over her ability to assimilate powers and psyches. She could do it much faster than before, as she’d proved with Colossus in the Danger Room, doing far less harm to her subjects in the process. But those were flash-hits, combat situations. Rogue borrowed a power for a specific reason and just as quickly gave it back again.
Or
—she’d touch a bad guy a bit longer to take him out of the fight. Her upper limit would allow her use of powers for twenty-four hours max, putting the guy she nailed out cold for the same length of time.

At the moment, though, Rogue had no need for her powers. Bobby was her guy. She didn’t want to just touch him for a fleeting, stolen second, she wanted the entire romance package. The kissing, the stroking, the hugging, the sex. She wanted all of him, but knew that if she tried, it would be the end of Bobby.

Rogue heard titters from a corner. She didn’t look because she knew the voices, but her eyes tightened to the dangerous, get-outta-my-way-bub glare she’d learned from Logan. Bobby looked and blushed. It was the Cuckoos, of course, blond triplets, Polo poster girls, telepaths. They dressed in white, following the style of their headmistress at the incredibly pricey Massachusetts Academy, and they loved to pry, perpetually trolling for any stray or wayward thought. Wicked sat in her usual corner, playing chess with one of her dead friends. She had a million of them, spirits at her beck and call, who would do her bidding, or could merge with her to add their raw strength to hers.

The school had grown since Rogue’s arrival, to the point where even this huge old house was threatening to burst at the seams. That’s why the Cuckoos were visiting. Xavier was considering an affiliation with the Massachusetts Academy, whose head, it turned out, was a fairly impressive telepath in her own right. The professor wanted to see what kind of students they recruited, and how well they played with others.

Thus far, Rogue hadn’t been impressed.

Bobby moved in front of her, apparently not ready to let the conversation drop. “That’s not fair,” he protested. “Have I put any pressure on you?”

No,
she conceded, swearing that if she heard the slightest snicker from those fashionista wannabees, there’d be blood.
You’ve been the perfect gentleman. It’s
me
who’s goin’ crazy.

But sadly, that wasn’t what she chose to say aloud.

“You think I can’t tell? You’re a guy, Bobby. There’s only one thing on your mind.”

This time, Bobby chose not to follow as Rogue moved around him and headed off. Better, he decided, to let her cool down and hope for a more rational conversation later.

He offered a wave and a hello to Scott as the bigger man strode past him, down the grand staircase to the foyer. Bobby was completely ignored, which wasn’t like Scott at all.

Bobby heard familiar voices—Logan calling “Hey, Scott!”—and snuck a peek over the gallery railing to see if anything was playing out downstairs.

As usual, Logan and Scott were about to have a testosterone throw-down. They couldn’t be in a room together for any amount of time without going mega-macho in each other’s face. The student body had a pool going, to see who’d eventually walk away in the end. Bobby always figured that was a waste of money, was sure the two men would one day work things out.

Listening now, though, he wasn’t quite so sure.

“They were looking for you downstairs,” Logan commented companionably, with just a hint of an edge in his voice to let Scott know this was serious. “You didn’t show.”

“What do you care?”

“I had to cover your ass, for starters!”

“I didn’t ask!”

“No,” Logan interrupted, calm in the face of Scott’s anger, “you didn’t. The
professor
did.” Fractional beat, to let the fact that he used Xavier’s title sink in. With Logan, it was invariably “Charley,” with the occasional “Chuck” when he wanted to get Xavier’s attention, not necessarily in a good way. Then: “I was just passing through.”

Scott didn’t bat an eye. “So? Pass through, Logan. It’s what you do best.”

Another beat, only a moment in real time, but it seemed to stretch like taffy to an almost unendurable length.

“Look, Scott, I know how you feel—”

This time Scott cut him off: “Don’t.”

“When Jean died—”

“I said,
don’t
!”

Watching from above, conscious now that he had company—the gallery was crowded with kids drawn by the commotion—Bobby wondered if he had been foolish to skip that pool.

Logan stepped in close, but when he reached out to Scott it was with an open hand.

“Maybe it’s time for us to move on.”

Scott didn’t give an inch.

“Not everybody heals as fast as you—
bub!
”

Logan watched as the great front doors of the Mansion closed behind Scott, listened to the sound of a bike engine being pushed to its limits and fading quickly into the distance, taking as much time as he needed to compose himself.

He knew he had an audience. With his eyes closed, by scent alone he could name them all. He jerked his head to indicate the show was over, and then found himself looking at Rogue, who’d rushed to the base of the stairs, probably to back him up in case he needed it.

She was only a kid the night she had crawled into his truck, in the ass-end of upper Canada, in Laughlin City, a dot of a prairie truck stop with dreams of grandeur. That journey together had ended with their introduction to the X-Men. Now she was a full-grown woman—and Logan knew that he’d found something that hurt her far worse than his claws ever could.

As Rogue stepped forward to offer a little comfort, perhaps only company over a beer, she didn’t need words to tell her that Logan still grieved for Jean.

He shook his head.

As Logan went his own way, impulse drew Rogue’s gaze up to the gallery, to the only person left watching—Bobby. And she knew that they must have had the same notions skittering across their thoughts: could either of them bear to be hurt so deeply? Could either of them bear to walk away?

It was a modest office block by federal standards, left over from a more decorative age, like the Old Executive Office Building and the Smithsonian. But what it lacked in modern aesthetics, or the practicalities of state-of-the-art internal data networking, it more than made up for in proximity to the
one
building in town that mattered. The one with the address 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

The offices housed the youngest of the president’s cabinet departments. But the reason both for its importance and for its being treated as a bastard stepchild could be found on the official identification plaque out front: united states department of mutant affairs. As usual, despite the constant surveillance of CCTV cameras and patrols by the DC metro police and federal security, someone had still managed to tag the sign during the night, using spray paint to cover
Affairs
with the word
Abominations.

The third-floor front suite, with a view of the White House, belonged to the secretary. Alicia Vargas—former Secret Service bodyguard to the previous president, now employed by DOMA as unofficial bodyguard and thoroughly official executive assistant to the secretary—strode down the elegant wood hallway and, with a pro forma knock, opened the door to her boss’s office.

The room was exquisitely furnished; whatever else you could say about Henry McCoy, DSC, PhD, he had excellent taste. At the moment, he was also hanging upside down from the suitably reinforced chandelier, thoroughly enjoying the latest issue of the
Economist.

Alicia was a lovely woman, the kind you’d expect to be chairing a PTA meeting, with a remarkable knack for blending into a crowd. She was as professionally turned out as her boss, although her suit, while a quality design, was off-the-rack, and his wholly bespoke Savile Row. The major difference was that hers was cut to hide the SIG Sauer automatic she still wore in a belt holster, while his suit was built around a six-foot, nearly three-hundred-pound, immensely athletic body completely covered in rich blue fur.