Chapter Text
I
Lance doesn’t know what he expects when he defects to the X-Men. A curfew. Fistfights with Summers. Some really lame preaching about tolerance and harmony that he’s not even sure he believes in. He’s here for Kitty; that’s as far as his certainty goes.
Storm answers the front door.
“Mr. Alvers,” she says, slightly out of breath and balancing a tall stack of bedsheets in her arms. “What can I do for you?”
“I went to…you know…join…you guys,” he says, coughing.
Storm lifts an eyebrow. “The Professor will want to see you. Kitty, can you show Mr. Alvers to the study?”
She’s standing on the bottom step of the grand staircase, dressed in grey sweatpants and an oversized Munich Circus t-shirt, blinking owlishly at him. Her ponytail is drooping. There are pink slippers on her feet.
“Sure,” she says, dazedly finishing her descent and dodging Storm as she heads upstairs. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m joining up,” he says, firmly.
“Why?”
“Just wanted to.”
He thinks she blushes, but she turns her head so quick he can’t double-check, waving him further into the house and leading him around the staircase into a long hallway. The carpets are plush and the air smells like lemon wood cleaner, and every goddamn bulb in the wall sconces is working, shining bright against the mahogany panelling, and for a second he regrets not doing this sooner. The light flickers against the curve of Kitty’s neck, the blade of one shoulder as the back of her t-shirt sags. Okay, maybe it’s more than a second.
“It’s just this—god, Bobby!” she shrieks, slamming to a stop in front of a long patch of ice. It licks up the baseboards and encrusts one door.
“The hell?” Lance says.
Kitty turns to him, rolling her eyes. “One of the newbies has ice powers. And no off switch. Come on, we can cut through here.”
She takes him through a door that leads through a library and into a rec room, past a set of quadruplets watching TV and into a kitchen at the back of the house. A stretch of windows takes up most of one wall, light from the outside patio casting deep shadows in the farmhouse sink and under the scrubbed pine table. Boxes and bowls are littered across the butcher block counter beside Nightcrawler, who has his head in a corner cupboard.
“Hey! I thought I was getting the snacks,” Kitty says.
“You were taking too long,” Nightcrawler says, turning and grinning so wide his sharp teeth glint.
“I was gone three seconds.”
“I was starving to death Katzchen. Wasting away.”
“Dinner was literally an hour ago.”
Lance shifts, his shoe squeaking against the tile floor. Nightcrawler’s head jerks, his gold eyes narrowing. “What’s he doing here?”
“Lance wants to switch sides.”
“Ah. Wunderbar.”
“Hey, be nice.”
“I am the picture of niceness.”
Kitty snorts. Nightcrawler’s tail whips against their legs, thwapping Kitty’s shins and making her smile in a way Lance despises. He’s dressed just as casually as she is—sweats and a black t-shirt—his hair half-up in a pink band that deep in Lance’s gut he knows must have come from her. He wonders what they were doing, when he arrived. He wonders if he should scrap this whole thing.
“I’m taking him to the Professor,” Kitty says, “then I’ll be back up and you can quiz me on my verbs.”
“Jawol.” Nightcrawler salutes her, turning back to the cupboard. “Was ist das?” He holds up a purple and white chip bag.
“Amara’s cinnamon roll rice crackers.”
“You Americans and your bastardised food.”
“Get me some carrot sticks!” Kitty calls, laughing as she pulls Lance towards a new door, coming back out into the hallway on the other side of the ice rink. A couple turns later, she knocks on a door. “Professor?”
“Come in, Kitty.”
She opens the door, waving him inside the study and pointing him at Xavier, who’s tidying papers on a massive oak desk. A fire pops in the hearth. Lance pulls at the collar of his t-shirt.
“Lance wants to join the X-Men,” Kitty says.
“Ororo informed me,” Xavier says, tapping his temple. “Have a seat, Mr. Alvers. Goodnight, Kitty.”
“‘Night, Professor. Oh! Bobby left a mess in the hall.”
Xavier sighs. “I’ll alert Logan.” The door shuts and Xavier sets his papers aside, leaning back in his wheelchair and steepling his fingers. Lance drops his bag beside a delicate armchair, slowly lowering himself into the seat so he doesn’t break it. “It’s a very brave and admirable thing you’re doing, Mr. Alvers. Can I ask what prompted this change of heart?”
Lance shifts. “Can’t you just read my mind?”
“I generally attempt to avoid reading others without their permission, except in dire circumstances.”
“Fine, it’s…fine, it’s whatever. I don’t care.”
Xavier lifts an eyebrow and Lance thinks he feels something tickling the back of his head. He scrambles to think about something positive, something good like he knows Xavier must want—saving little old ladies and the Nobel Peace Prize—but he knows he’s probably fucked it up. The considering look on Xavier’s face doesn’t change.
“The rules will be different here, Mr. Alvers,” Xavier finally says. “Our training is much more intensive and regimented than what you’ve experienced with Mystique, and you’ll have to abide by the house curfew, participate in chores, and attend school regularly.”
Lance swallows a groan. “Yeah, okay.”
“You’ll be with the new mutants, for training. And I believe there’s a spare bed in Sam’s room that you can use.”
“The new kids? But I’ve had my powers longer than those guys. You know what I can do.”
“If your performance indicates that you’ve been misplaced, we will reevaluate. But my decision isn’t just about your abilities, it’s about building trust. The senior team has been working together for a year, often against you and the rest of the Brotherhood. You will need to earn the trust of both my staff and students, and prove that you can be integrated into the main team.”
Lance winces.
“We both know why you’re here, Mr. Alvers. And we both know that you can be capable of great things, if you’re willing to work for them.”
Lance’s neck twinges, his body unfamiliar with the weight of the expectation Xavier’s just placed on him. No one has ever wanted much from him, although teachers and case workers always said they did. Mystique and Magneto promised greatness, too, but it gave him a rush, power and purpose making his heart pound like he’d just got off a roller coaster. He knows this is the better path—the good person path—but he doesn’t know why it has to make him feel like crap.
“Logan, Ororo, you can come in,” Xavier suddenly says, and the study door opens, Wolverine and Storm striding in and casting wary glances in Lance’s direction. Behind them, a blond kid in a denim vest hovers in the doorway. “Sam, please show Lance to his new room.”
“Sure, Professor,” Cannonball says.
Grabbing his bag, Lance hurries into the hallway, following Cannonball back through the empty kitchen and up the main staircase to the bedrooms. The students’ wings are busy, doors open spilling out music and kids on their way to the bathroom, the whole floor smelling like floral shampoo and acetone and cologne. Cannonball points out the older kids’ side before turning right, taking him to a room nearly at the end of the hall.
“This is us,” he says, waving at an empty bed, “and that’s you.”
“Why are we sharing? This place is huge,” Lance says.
Cannonball shrugs. “I don’t know, man; there’s a lot of kids. I think all the seniors used to have their own rooms, but when we showed up, Rogue and Evan got stuck rooming with Kitty and Scott.”
“Do you guys hang out with them at all?”
Cannonball snorts. “Of course we do. Why, worried you won’t get to hit on Kitty?”
“Fuck off.”
“Hey, man, calm down. I got to the same school as you. It’s not like you’re subtle.”
Lance dumps out his bag, grabbing clothes and roughly shoving them in an empty dresser beside his bed. The back of his neck burns. When he’s finished, he grabs a magazine and flops on his new mattress, thrilling at the crisp scratch of the sheets against his elbows. On the other side of the room, Cannonball finishes writing something that looks like homework, stuffing a binder and textbook in a black backpack before disappearing into the hall with a set of pyjamas. The walls above his bed are papered with photos and a Metallica poster. Maybe this won’t be so bad.
“Lights out, kids, you got school tomorrow,” Logan bellows outside in the hall. “That means you, Half-Pint! You want to keep studying, do it in your own room!”
Lance’s gut twists. He’s been here two hours, and it already feels like too much work.