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Hank
The sign at the entrance to Harry's Back Alley Brewpub said "Under New Management." Hank McCoy froze with one blue-furred hand on the door – all right, "paw," he thought; it's a goddamned paw – and looked back at the others. "Maybe someone else should go in first. Just to see –"
"See what?" growled Logan, barreling up behind him. "If they don't want you, they don't want any of us. May as well find out right off. Besides --" He raised a fist and turned it to show off his knuckles "—could be fun."
Peter Rasputin, hanging back, spread his massive hands. "Pardon me, Logan, but I do not believe Scott and Ms. Frost's desire that we have a relaxing change of pace will be served by a barfight." He nodded deferentially at the pair in question – although, in truth, the word "fight" stirred the first sign of interest Scott had shown all evening. Emma just scowled, which could mean anything, although Hank's guess this time was that she wanted a peaceful night but wasn't about to be told where she wasn't welcome.
"It's all right," announced Kitty, stepping sideways toward them, through the building's façade. "I ducked inside, and I know the bartender from one summer I worked in the Catskills. He's cool and, besides, they've got a big picture of Dazzler on the wall."
Emma's face contorted. "Oh, God!"
"No, it's good," Kitty said. "It means they're mutant-friendly."
"It means their taste in music sucks," Emma shot back.
"We came this far, I think we should go in," Kitty said firmly.
"I agree with Katya," said Peter. "Only, perhaps –" he glanced at a whirring form above her head. "The dragon could wait outside?"
"Lockheed's a certified helper animal!" Kitty answered.
Emma glanced down at Kitty's T-shirt, which was lavender with a sunflower design appliquéd in the center of her chest. "What does he do? Pick out your clothes?"
Scott spoke for almost the first time since they had left the mansion. "Are we going in or not? Because if we're wasting our time, I'm sure Storm and T'Challa have better things to do than babysit the students."
"They still have Canadian beer on tap?" Logan asked.
"Six kinds," Kitty answered.
"Then what the hell are we waiting for?"
*
Logan staked out two tables in the middle of the dining room. Peter pushed them together, Kitty hunted down chairs. Scott got Canadian beer for everyone, Hank joined them with three orders of nachos, and Emma eyefucked anybody who looked like they might have something to say about his presence. Sometimes, Hank reflected, it really was great to have a woman like that on your side.
The night out must have been Emma's idea, but Hank couldn't imagine that anything about this place represented her first choice. The food was greasy, the beer wasn't really to anyone's taste but Logan's, and the décor seemed, to put it mildly, random. Behind the small stage there was, as Kitty had observed, a huge poster of Alison Blaire in full Dazzler regalia. "Do you think she's serious about those outfits?" Emma mused -- with no apparent irony, for a grown woman wearing a midriff halter top and something that vaguely resembled a cape; and these were her streetclothes.
"Lay off Dazzler, now." Hank couldn't resist. "At one point, I recall, our Fearless Leader owned every album the woman had recorded."
"She just has the two," Scott answered. "I mean, the bonus disc in the box set is all repackaged demo tracks so really –" He trailed off, and lifted his beer. Through the mouthful, he mumbled, "I know her."
Emma sighed. "I suppose it's too much to hope that you also know Terence Trent D'arby, Paul Anka, and the Gibb Brothers. Because that would do a lot to explain your music collection."
"A lot of people have The BeeGees' Greatest Hits," Scott answered, deftly sidestepping the rest of the accusation.
"Greatest Hits?" Logan leaned forward and said, with the gleeful air of someone who has been storing up a bit of vital bit of news, looking for just the right chance to announce -- "You have 'Robin Gibb Live with the Frankfurt Orchestra.'"
"I –" Scott slammed down his beer and stared. "You know what else I have? Respect for other people's property."
"You think I want to steal that?" Logan answered.
And really, Hank reflected -- with these two at each other's throats about trivialities, maybe things were getting back to some kind of normal
Scott crossed his arms and scowled. "I think you've been going through my stuff. Again. And recently. I just bought that last week."
Hank raised a hand. "I can field this one for everybody. You just bought that last week?"
"It was a dollar on E-bay," Scott mumbled.
"So's plastic dog crap, I bet," said Logan. "That doesn't mean I have it shipped general delivery to the mansion –"
"You opened my mail?"
"Did you hear me? General delivery. It could have been a bomb."
"Or something I ordered that you wanted for yourself -- "
"What would that be exactly? You got the new Manilow coming in? Neil Diamond?"
"All right!" Emma snapped, grabbing each of the men by one shoulder. She dug her nails in, but spoke with a soothing tone. "Girls, girls. You're both pretty."
Logan pulled back and cocked his head at her. "Pretty?"
Scott sulked. "Both?"
Emma put a thumb to his chin and tilted his head back, then pecked him quickly on the cheek. "I might be willing to concede," she said, "that some of us are slightly prettier than others."
"Slightly," Scott answered, and brushed her with his lips in return. Then he sat back in his chair and put his arm around Emma and to Hank it still felt strange and new, but for God's sake the man was smiling, and that had to count for something.
"Oh my God," said Kitty.
"Nobody's making you watch," Emma snapped.
"No, I mean, oh my God." She pointed up at the stage. "They're bringing out the karaoke machine."
Kitty
Kitty studied the sheets of the plastic binder with the kind of intensity she usually reserved for complex programming languages. "We have to find something for you to sing, Hank."
"I don't suppose they have any Tom Waits?" Hank said. "I'm good with lower registers. One of the advantages of my secondary mutation."
"I'm looking," said Kitty. "Since you're cool, and you're going to sing, and you're not like the rest of these losers. . . "
"I'm merely considering my selection," said Emma. Lounging against Scott's arm, she slowly pulled the beer bottle from her lips, doing something to it with her tongue that looked more than a little obscene. Kitty quickly looked down at the book. I don't want to hurt her. There's no reason for me to want to hurt her. I spent all those months in anger management counseling, back in Chicago, so that at a time like this, I shouldn't want to hurt Emma Frost just for being the way she is.
On the karaoke stage, some drunk girl was butchering "Mack the Knife" in a high reedy voice. "Anything would be better than that," said Emma. "Probably even Scott here." And that was stupid because Scott was a good singer, which Emma really ought to know, if she ever paid any attention to anybody but herself. Oh, wait. It's Emma. What am I thinking?
"I'm not singing," Scott said firmly.
"Killjoy," said Kitty. She was brave enough to look up and see Emma rubbing the back of her hand over Scott's neck, and why did she even care? What they did was their business.
"It's not trying to be uptight about this," Scott answered. "I just don't sing in public."
"Scott thinks he's Captain Von Trapp," Hank suggested.
"Mmmmm, Christopher Plummer," Emma mused. Running a thumb over Scott's cheek, she said, "I'll buy you a whistle. Although, if this means you're waiting for a nun with a bad haircut to come along and steal your heart. . . I liked it better when I thought you were fantasizing about Barry Gibb."
"Please." Scott flipped a peanut into his mouth. "Andy was the cute one."
"Wait a minute –" Logan leaned forward. "You said you thought he was fantasizing. Don't you know?"
"Logan –" Scott warned. At the moment, Kitty was very much on his side.
Logan persisted. "You must have found out something interesting while you were poking around there –"
"Hey –" Scott jutted his thumb at the other man. "Why don't you poke around him for a while, see how he likes it?"
"Well, actually," said Emma. "Last time Logan was talking to Nick Fury, I couldn't help getting this vibe. . ."
"Tom Waits!" Kitty crowed, waving the binder at Hank. "'Invitation to the Blues'!"
"Perfection. Put me down," said Hank, obviously sharing Kitty's desire to steer the conversation away from Logan's subconscious.
Kitty pointed at the book, and Peter obediently transcribed "HANK" and the selection number onto the entry slip in his meticulous handwriting. He then handed the slip to Lockheed, who flew forward and deposited it in the bin.
"Now, Logan –" Kitty flipped open the book and marked a place with her thumb, then held it across the table to show him. "I know you know this one."
Logan looked down and laughed. "Okay, I do. But no. I'm not singing."
"Please!" Kitty thrust out her lip in a mock pout, then clasped her hands. "I will if you will."
"I am sorry," said Peter. "This is meant to be – how do you call it – an incentive? Because, Katyushka, I have heard you sing –"
Emma snorted, and Kitty yelped, "Hey!" She slapped his sleeveless arm. "That was mean." Peter looked down in surprise at her touch, and Kitty started tapping out a pattern on his substantial bicep. "That was so mean, I almost thought Emma said it!"
"Believe me, dearest," said Emma, her voice all smoke and honey. "When I'm being mean, you'll know it."
Kitty had been trying for a joke, and Emma merely returned the volley. There's no reason for me to want to hurt her, Kitty repeated silently. But then she caught a flash of those pale blue eyes, and the thought was upon her, fully formed, before she had a chance to restrain it. All the loss and pain and misery I've seen in this world, and there's one person who seems to walk away from every killing field without a scratch on her, and it has to be you. "I'm sure, Emma," said Kitty, tightening her grip on Peter. "I'm sure that I will."
Peter
Peter wasn't sure, for a moment, where he ought to be focusing his attention: the look on Katya's face, or her hand on his arm. That look was new or, at least, it was something she had acquired while he was gone. This was far beyond the impulsive anger she had been capable of as a girl; this was a look that said, if Katya had possessed Cyclops's mutation, Emma Frost – diamond skin or not -- would have been reduced to a pile of smoldering dust.
He felt the same anger in her touch on his skin. She dug fingers in, almost claws, like the animal she was nicknamed for. And yet there was affection, too, if only because he was the one she reached out to; he was the one she cornered, for that matter, every day in the mansion to rant about Emma's latest injustice. But the anger wasn't only at Emma. It couldn't be. If it had been, she could have left the team; she had done it before. She never had to come back in the first place. If she was still here, did it mean that there was something life as an X-man had to offer her, or simply that she had given up hope of anything better from the world outside? And if that was true, what did it say about the two of them? Was she reaching out for him because she cared for him? Would it be right to return that or were the two of them simply. . .
"Hungry like the wolf," said Katya.
Peter blinked. "Pardon?"
"Duran Duran." She poked his shoulder and pointed at the page. "'Hungry Like the Wolf.'"
"I do not know the words," he answered.
"They don't make sense anyway. As far as I can tell, they're totally random. Look, I'll be Simon Le Bon and all you need is the 'Do- do-do-do-do-do-do-do' part."
Peter tried to oblige her. "Do-do-do-do-do-do-do." He had no clear idea of the tune.
Katya chimed in at vaguely the right time with an atonal variation on, "Hungry like the wolf!" She nodded at him. "See? Easy-peasy."
"There is a saying," Peter mused. "Those who can, do. And yet. Katya and I – clearly cannot. And yet it seems we will." He nodded across the table at Scott who was looking, perhaps, a bit too comfortable curled against Emma's shoulder. "You, Cyclops, can but will not –"
"Cyclops can what?" Emma demanded. She tilted her head back and looked up at Scott. "I've never heard you sing a note. Are you good?" When he shrugged, she looked around at the others, "Is he good?"
"Very, actually," said Hank.
"Very," Peter agreed -- knowing but not caring that Scott was going to thrust that disapproving chin at him. It had been years and years, and even back then it was like pulling teeth to get a song out of him. But Peter remembered one night, early in his years with the team, when he and Kurt had been trying to master a few American Christmas carols. Jean had offered to teach them, but clearly she had no concept of how many lords were supposed to be leaping. Finally, Scott had to push his way into the circle, just to set everyone straight. "I believe," Peter said gravely, repeating the explanation Scott had had given at the time, "that he belonged to a choir in Omaha."
Logan arched an eyebrow. "You know, when I was doing covert missions for the government, I used to go to bed every night and say, 'I hope one day I get to be on a highly specialized team led by a choirboy from Omaha.'"
"By coincidence," said Emma, jerking the songlist out of Katya's hand, "that's exactly the kind of man I always knew I wanted to date."
"You guys are enjoying this too much," Scott mumbled. He looked to where Emma was intently studying the catalog. "You better not be looking up a song for me, because I'm not doing this."
"Fine," Emma said airily. She took one of the entry slips from Peter and cupped her hand over it as she wrote. "For your information? This is for me." She folded the paper and put it on the stack with the ones that Peter had made. "No peeking," she warned, then looked back at Scott. "Of course, I'd never force you to do anything you didn't want to."
This seemed to send Katya into a coughing fit, and then propel her to her feet. "Pete!" She grabbed his arm. "Come with me and take these up. And then –" she shimmied, "We can practice for our turn. Make up a dance."
As they moved away from the table, Peter put a hand on her shoulder. Leaning close, he murmured, "Katya, are you all right?"
"Fine," she said shortly. "It's just that when certain people think they're the queen of everything and the boss of everybody, it makes me a little sick to my stomach."
His hand moved up to her chin, and she turned slowly to look at him. Her lip was white from where she had been biting it. "Is that all?"
"No," Katya answered. "No, it's not." She reached up to lace her small fingers through his massive ones. For a moment, her form flickered, and then her palm pressed solid against his. "Now, Mr. Rasputin. Come and dance with me."
Logan
"I gotta hand it to you, Frost –" Logan downed the last of his beer, just as the waitress swooped in with another pitcher. "You sure know how to pick a sketchy dive bar."
Scott frowned across the table at him. "I thought she got you to choose the place."
"Exactly." Logan wiped his mouth with the back of one hand. "That's the best way to pick a sketchy dive bar."
"Young love," Hank mused out loud.
"Huh?" Scott demanded. Logan pushed back from the table, but Emma pointed across the room. Peter had his hand on Kitty's back and together they maneuvered in a complex and apparently random combination of dance steps.
"Doesn't it just make you want to vomit?" Emma asked.
Scott shrugged and reached for the beer. "I think they're cute." He frowned. "Especially when you don't think about how she was thirteen when they met."
Emma rubbed her temples. "I wish they'd just fuck. Unresolved sexual tension gives me migraines."
"Unresolved?" Scott frowned. "I thought they were --"
"No," said Emma and Logan at once.
"I'd definitely sense it," said Emma.
"I'd probably smell it," said Logan.
Hank raised his beer and held it out to Scott. "For the record? Beast or not, I don't go around sniffing people for sex. I'm totally oblivious."
Scott nodded in approval, and clinked his glass against Hank's. "Here's to total oblivion. Bottoms up."
Logan and Emma opened their mouths at the same time, but before they could race to make a dirty joke, the MC's voice cut across the room, ". . .singing a tune by the great Tom Waits, we have. . .Hank!"
"Now," Logan said, with a glance at Emma, "Let's see how good of a bar we really picked."
*
It didn't matter much to Logan. They could go home with a fight or without one. The bar paid lip service to being mutant-friendly but then, plenty of businesses close to Salem Center were happy to take the dollars the school brought in. The other patrons had seemed pretty easy-going, so far, and by now anybody with a brain in their skull had to have a pretty good idea that they were not just mutants but X-men. Still, Logan knew enough people who said they didn't have any problem with muties, as long as they're not shoving it in my face. In the eyes of some, a guy covered with blue fur taking to the karaoke stage on open mike night would probably qualify. If there was going to be trouble it was going to happen now. Logan glanced back at Scott, and he didn't need to see that tight-jawed nod to know Cyke would also be scanning the place for possible threats.
A soothing voice intruded on his thoughts. Honestly, you two, calm down. They both looked at Emma, who gave an innocent smile.
She must have networked them together, because Logan heard Scott's reply. What did you do, Emma?
Just watch. She reached across the table and put a hand on Logan's. Trust me. Then he felt her disconnect – probably, he guessed, in response to Logan's curiosity about what exactly she was doing with her other hand.
On the stage, Hank was raising the microphone. He cleared his throat and looked around at the audience, flashing a smile at the others in his party. From the back, an unsteady male voice rose in song, "C is for cookie, that's good enough for me –" A few scattered laughs sounded throughout the bar. Then, simultaneously, the singer and the laughers doubled over, each with a sharp cry and a hand to the forehead.
"Emma!" Scott hissed.
"Not I," she answered, just as the bar erupted in cheers and applause.
The heckler, already recovered and on his feet, called out, "Crazy fuckin' muties!"
"Go home, asshole!" shouted someone on the other side of the room. Other voices joined in -- "Let the guy sing!" "Don't you know who he is?" "McCoy!" "Hank!" "X-men in the bar!" – until they blended into a chant of "Hank! Hank! Hank!" Across the room, Kitty and Peter – and somehow, half the waitstaff and a crowd of random people they had drafted into their makeshift dance – were clapping hands and leading the chant.
The guy in the back started to stagger toward their table. Logan sighed, raised a hand, and let one of the blades protrude, just a little – it still hurt every bit as much, but sometimes less really was more. "Wolverine!" came more cries and applause from the audience.
The heckler grabbed his coat and bolted toward the door. "You people are sick!" he called over his shoulder, but the sound of his exit was drowned by the crowd's applause, and more cries of "Hank!"
"Thank you," said the man of the hour, and if a blue furball could blush, he would have been. Then the music started, and Hank began to growl his own version of Tom Waits' love song to a sultry waitress.
Emma's voice resurfaced in Logan's mind. We're not the only mutants in here. Since it wasn't me who gave all those idiots a headache at the same time, I'm apparently not even the only telepath. However. Not everyone who's cheering for Hank is a mutant.
How do you know --? Logan began. She raised an eyebrow and he corrected, All right, what does it mean?
Emma studied the nails on her visible hand. The world, my friends, may hate and fear us. However, the last few years have turned us into something far more powerful than superheroes -- She rubbed her thumb over an imaginary chip -- We're celebrities, boys. That, along with Henry's excellent singing, has earned us quite a bit of goodwill. And soon we're going to need it.
Scott frowned, and Logan heard him think, Why?
"Because," Emma said out loud. "Kitty's about to go on."
Scott
Scott wound an arm around Emma's shoulder and rested his fingers at the base of her throat. Have I told you lately that I love you?
Honestly, darling. You're just saying that because I'm the only woman with her hand on your crotch right now. She danced her fingers over the fabric of his blue jeans, as though he needed reminding.
He breathed deeply and risked a foray into Emma-logic. Fine. I hate you.
"I knew it," Emma pronounced, out loud. She whisked her hand away and raised it to the table.
The gasp Scott gave out was not the sort of thing that could be executed voluntarily and at a subverbal level.
Logan's eyebrow went up. "Knew what?" Scott had the uneasy feeling the other man was aware of exactly what Emma's hands had been up to.
Emma, as usual, didn't miss a beat, but nodded at the stage where Kitty was singing – to use the word loosely – Hungry like the Wolf, as Peter sort of danced in the background. "She really is extremely bad."
"At least she keeps missing the cues," Hank observed, "so you can't really hear her half the time."
Realizing that Emma was done with him for the moment, Scott swallowed a sigh and looked at the ceiling where . . .a purple dragon was flying in a series of loops and twirls worthy of the Lafayette Escadrille. "What's Lockheed doing?"
"Trying to decide whether her owner is being tortured or possessed?" Emma suggested.
"As long as he doesn't attack the machine," said Scott. "We can't afford to pay for damages."
"Take it out of her paycheck." Emma cupped her hands over her mouth and called, "Go, Lockheed!" The dragon took this as a summons, and flew toward Emma who covered her head and hid against the table top. "Goddamit! Bloody hell, Scott. Blast that damn thing!"
Scott looked over Emma at the others, and pointed wordlessly at his glasses. Without the visor, he couldn't throw a blast if he wanted to, not without taking the ceiling off in the process.
Emma struck out blindly in the dragon's direction and knocked over her beer, which proceeded to splash onto her halter top. "Oh hell!" She looked down at the spreading stain. "This is a Marc Jacobs. It's definitely coming out of Kitty's check."
Hank handed her a napkin and judiciously pointed out, "She didn't do anything."
"Thank you, brilliant scientific mind." Emma rolled her eyes and started dabbing at the wet fabric. "And thank you, my supposed beloved, for not defending me from that thing." Emma glared at Lockheed, which sat on the table switching its tail. "It apparently has no brain and is thus immune to normal methods of persuasion." She narrowed her eyes at Scott, who was holding a hand over his mouth. "Are you laughing?"
There was really no point in denying the obvious, but sometimes a man had to try. "Not even a little bit.
She backhanded him on the shoulder. "Asshole," she said.
"Oww."
In the interlude of dragon-related drama, they had lost track of the singers. Kitty now bounced up behind Logan's chair and asked, "How were we?" Behind her, Peter shrugged apologetically.
"Unique," said Logan. "I guess it's my turn."
*
Logan was onstage, performing David Allen Coe's "perfect country and Western song," while Scott sat at the table thinking about sex. This was not really due to Logan half-singing/half-declaiming that he was "drunk the day my mom got out of prison." The song was actually a good choice to get the X-men back in the graces of the crowd. It didn't require a lot of vocal talent, but rewarded theatricality – which Logan, as much as he might try to play it off, clearly had in spades. Also, it had a singalong chorus.
By the second time around, Emma – who had obviously never heard the thing in her life, and probably didn't get the jokes – was bumping up against Scott and belting out "You don't have to call me darlin' – darlin'." She kept looking at him expectantly, as though he might join in. But he had already made a point that he wasn't going to sing and now that Emma was making an issue, this was turning into a matter of principle.
He shook his head. He wasn't going to sing for her, but he was glad she had dragged them out here, anyway. It was exactly what they all needed -- not more stress and gloom; just the chance to forget all that for a while. She had made the right decision as a team leader, lover, and friend, while Scott was too wrapped up in himself to realize the decision needed to be made. It was, in other words, exactly what Jean would have done. It felt strange to realize this -- not just that he had the thought, but that he could carry it so dispassionately; he could think this, and it didn't hurt.
He wasn't going to sing for Emma, but as soon as he got home, alone, he wanted to spend the next ten or twelve hours in bed with her, and nothing to do with a good night's sleep. None of this crawl-in-my-head-and-cure-my-nightmares, fuck-me-until-the-Phoenix- is-gone madness, either. Just bodies, strong hungry bodies, minds staying to themselves for once. He might surprise her by asking for that. If he even could surprise her. If she wasn't listening to every one of this thoughts, already if she might even now be anticipating and thinking --
"Oh, God. If they put his picture up next to Dazzler, there's not going to be any living with him."
"Huh?" Scott asked, and Emma pointed up to the stage, where Logan was done with his song, but could hardly get down thanks to the manager -- who was pressing a pen and paper into his hands -- and a waiting queue of eager-looking young women. Scott frowned. "You think you should clear a psychic path for him or something?"
"I'm pretty sure Logan can handle a few fangirls," said Emma with a smirk.
"Aren't you next?" Scott looked down at her top, which was wet with the beer Lockheed had spilled. "Do you want to go up there with your shirt all wet?"
Logan wasn't there to snicker, so Kitty just coughed, and Emma breezily replied, "I'll be fine" – which, as Scott thought about it, seemed dangerously like a clue. The MC stepped up and Emma said, "This should be the slip I put in."
"Now, singing a song by the BeeGees," the man read – oh yes, there was another clue -- "it looks like we have –" he squinted at the paper "—Scott."
"Emma!" Scott groaned. Of course it served him right. He had sat right there and let her write his name, and he hadn't even checked on what she was doing.
"Come on, sweetie." She kissed his cheek. "I have faith. I just want to hear you."
"You win. You always win." He stood up and squeezed her shoulder. She had outstrategized him, and now that he had done his best to fight it, he wasn't sure he would mind so much, after all. "At least tell me what I'm singing."
"You know it." She flicked him on the arm. "Go break a bone."
"Leg."
"Oh, I'm not that picky." She shooed him toward the stage. "Go. See?" Emma turned to the others and he heard her say. "That wasn't so hard. It'll be good for him."
When Scott got to the stage, he made a show of how much he had to raise the microphone after Logan's performance, then took it in his hand and tried a stage smile. "Here goes nothing. This one is dedicated to –"
He looked at the screen, read the name of the song, and Emma's name stuck in his throat. He dropped his eyes, turned away from the table where his friends sat, and waited for the music to start.
Emma
"There's a light. . .
A certain kind of light. . .
That never shone on me. . .."
His voice was a little unsteady from lack of practice, but Hank and Peter were right. He was very very good. It was a better song than she remembered – what little she remembered – or maybe that was him as well. Emma realized, belatedly, why she didn't actually very much like hearing people sing. She preferred symphonies to operas, unless they were comedies, and there weren't many popular singers she cared for at all. The human voice was an unreliable instrument, subject to the whims of emotion. For a telepath, the air was full of enough annoying and distracting stray feelings, without hearing all that concentrated energy poured into music.
Or maybe it was something else -- a guarded jealousy of her own gift. Empathic reading was a tricky proposition, one that had never come naturally to her, but when you put a voice to music, suddenly everybody thought they could hear the emotion behind it. Scott, God damn him, was keeping her out of his head, at the same time he was singing the hell out of that lousy song for a room full of strangers. Meanwhile, Emma Frost had to slump down at a table full of people who already thought she was a heartless bitch while her boyfriend -- yes, that one, the guy with the many-times dead wife and the ever-so-tragic story they had all just played through, once again – belted out the chorus she had sent him up there to sing:
"You don't know what it's like. . .
Baby, you don't know what it's like. . .
to love somebody. . .
to love somebody. . .
the way I love you."
Emma supposed she should be happy that he never once looked in her direction.
*
"See that?" Logan grumbled. Scott stepped down from the stage, as the manager and a few of the giggling co-eds swarmed around him. "They're gonna want to put his picture up with Dazzler and me."
"He is very good," said Peter.
"Better than I remember," said Hank.
"Now I'm embarrassed for myself," said Kitty.
"As well you should be," said Emma.
Four sets of eyes turned to her, but no one spoke, and then Scott was back at their table.
Honestly darling, she thought at him. You didn't have to be nearly that that convincing --
Not now, not here, not listening, not playing. His thoughts came to her in a jumble of negation. He stepped right past her chair and held out his hand to Logan. "Keys. For your bike. I'm taking it home." Then, in an act utterly without precedent in Emma's experience, Logan reached into his pocket and silently handed them over. Scott picked his coat from the back of the chair and, still without looking at Emma, walked out.
"Well," said Kitty, as the door slammed behind him, "that was awkward."
Emma's whirled on her. "Shut your fucking mouth."
"What?" Kitty kicked back her chair and bolted to her feet. You can't just say that to me, you -- "
Emma stabbed a finger at her. "Don't say that, either, little girl or you will regret it."
Kitty gasped, and moved toward the table. Peter stepped in front of her. "Ms. Frost, Katya did not mean –"
Kitty whirled on him. "Where the hell do you come off apologizing for me?"
"Look, kitten," said Logan.
"I'm not a kitten --" Emma got to her feet, and turned to the door. She didn't care enough about Kitty at the moment to have this fight. "And I'm not a little fucking girl –"
Emma picked up her shawl, wrapped it around her shoulders, and started walking away.
Kitty's voice followed her. "I'm nobody's goddamn mascot. I had a six-figure offer with Microsoft – "
"Katya –"
" -- and if Emma doesn't want him to get mad, maybe she should stop being so mean to him, like she's mean to everybody what does she expect and –"
The door slammed behind Emma, cutting off the noise from inside. The air had grown cold, and of course she wasn't dressed for it. She walked to school's SUV – Hank had driven; she didn't have keys – and kicked the ground, where she could make out the tire treads of Logan's bike. Scott had taken off in a hurry. Well, screw you, too. I guess running away is what you're good at. She could have shot the thought out toward him, just to see if it hit anything, but what was the goddamn point? Not listening not playing not home not for you. Emma could have broken past those defenses, but he clearly didn't want her to. She didn't know if her willingness to comply was a sign of growing respect, or cowardice. Maybe the part of her that didn't want to know what he was thinking had won out.
The door to the bar slammed, and Emma stiffened as heavy footsteps approached. "Shove it, Logan," she warned.
"Guess again," said Henry McCoy. Emma didn't look around but blew warm air on her hands. The steam that rose with her breath made her wish she had a cigarette. "Didn't get to him on time?"
"I wasn't trying to. I just thought I'd come out here and wish I still smoked. Do you have a cigarette?"
Hank raised a paw. "I'm a bit too flammable these days."
"If I smoked, I could have a good reason to be out here. I suppose everyone is in there talking about how awful I am."
"Just Kitty, really. Logan and Peter are defending you. Of course, you didn't curse at them for no reason and, as they're both quite fond of her, I imagine you've used up your 'Abuse Kitty free' card." He swallowed. "Don't worry about Kitty. Are you all right?"
He stepped closer, and Emma turned her face more fully into the shadows. "I didn't remember the words to the bloody song. Obviously. We had just been teasing him about his music, and I thought it would be fun and silly and he might actually crack a smile. Please tell me it wasn't their song or anything idiotic like that, because I already feel enough like the second Mrs. DeWinter."
"I think you're safe." Hank's mouth twitched. "I won't vouch for Scott, but Jean had better taste than that. It wasn't the song."
"No. You're right. He was looking for a reason to storm out of there all night."
"Probably," said Hank.
"It's not like coming here is my idea of a good time," she snapped. "You think I care about team bonding or – beer or grease or, God forbid, the vocal stylings of Miss Katherine Pryde? It just seemed like the kind of thing Scott would want to do if he was actually here. So why can't he be happy for five minutes?"
"You mean besides having to deal with seeing someone he loved die. Again."
"Someone. Yeah." Emma rubbed her eye. There was something in it; all this dust. "I'm going to sound like a heartless bitch, but you know that already. So I'll just say it. People die. Most people only die once. I'm not glad the woman's dead – you know that."
"Of course you're not."
"For one thing," said Emma, letting her mouth curl into a smile, "it makes my victory ring a bit hollow."
Hank gave her a curious look, and she wondered if she had pushed too far. But he just nodded slowly. "It's like Joyce said. The dead don't fight fair." He grinned sheepishly and amended, "Paraphrase."
"I know the story," Emma answered. "Christ, I taught Dubliners to the tenth grade for years until I got sick of all that Irish fatalism. So Jean's the little Irish boy who froze to death in the snow, and Scott gets to be so very haunted by his tragic past, while I'm the blundering bourgeois spouse who wants him to forget all about it."
"It was just a comment, Emma. I didn't think it out that much."
"I understand." She shrugged. "You're never going to win a contest for sainthood with a certified martyr. Especially not if you're me. But it would be nice if people didn't talk about Scott like he's the only person who ever knew anyone who died. I clawed my way out from under sixteen million corpses. I can claim a little knowledge about the dead."
Hank clasped his hands behind his back and looked at her intently. "You did. Yes. You took all that loss and you've worked to make it into something positive. That's what you do. You're a survivor. People admire that in you. I admire that and - – now Scott's doing what he does."
"Bloody wonderful," said Emma. "So we have no idea when we get home if he'll be there, or he'll be back in Alaska living on his shrimp boat."
"The shrimp boat was in Florida, actually," said Hank. "Alaska was a different time. But yes – I see your general concern. Of course, we all share it. Scott has always been that way. Now tell me." He tilted his head, as though examining her from a different angle would improve his insight. "Which part of this did you not know when you signed on for this?"
"I didn't –" She shook her head. "He should let me help him."
"Help him -- be a different person than he is?" .
"Yes."
"Fix him?'"
"Yes."
"You can't."
"I know." She slammed her heel onto the pavement where the bike had stood. "I know, and it's stupid."
"It's human," answered Hank.
"Exactly." Emma hugged her arms to her chest and looked at the broad white moon rising in the sky. "I've never been any good at 'human.'"
"It's not you," said Hank. "Believe me. This isn't the first time I've had this same conversation about Scott."
"I don't think we've had this conversation. We've had the one about how I should leave Scott and Jean alone, and –." And they both knew how well that went.
"I didn't mean I'd had it with you."
"Oh." She caught his meaning all at once, and struggled to sound sufficiently indifferent. "Really?"
"Yes," he said. "A long time before you ever came into the picture. Those two fought like crazy sometimes. You wouldn't want to be in the house for all the tension – and I mean, I wouldn't, and I don't read minds. Scott Summers is not the easiest person in the world to love, Emma. But some of us do. I do, and Xavier does, and God knows Jean did. And though you'd have to strip the adamantium off his bones to get him to admit it, I think even Logan --"
"Well, obviously, Henry --"My telepathy is good for something. Not that I would need it for that pair."
"Oh," said Hank, looking flustered. Honestly. Men.
"So tell me. What do I have to do to earn a membership in the Lovers of Scott Summers? Since, obviously, just being his lover isn't enough."
"You have to love him," said Hank, "and be sure it's enough to deal with the periodic bouts of insanity that such a condition is likely to cause. And if you don't think you can, you should let him know."
"It was just a song."
"No it wasn't."
They stood there for a moment in silence, and finally Emma said,"Thanks for the pep talk," She couldn't quite get the right level of sarcasm into her voice.
"I don't know who you're going to hear it from, if not from me. For what it's worth, I'm on your side."
He reached out a furry hand, and Emma tentatively took it. "I thought we were all supposed to be on the same side."
"Exactly." He squeezed her palm firmly. "Now. What you have to do now is to go back in there."
"Right." She sighed. "I can't let them think they chased me out."
"Well, there's that," said Hank. "And also, the song I put in for you is coming up."
"Oh, no –" she began, then saw his lopsided grin and thought, dish it out and be prepared to take it.
"You know it," Hank assured her. "And it's fitting. The rest of them all think it's true, anyway."
*
Patsy Cline would not have been Emma's first choice. Of course, she had undergone the standard vocal training expected of a Frost daughter, and she wasn't at all bad. But Emma was realistic in the perception of her own abilities. She wasn't especially good, and she'd observed enough school talent competitions to know that inviting comparisons to the great vocal talents of the past was the surest way to make a decent voice sound mediocre. She would have liked to start with something easier, or something she could turn into a parody – "Fever," by Peggy Lee or (apropos of Hank's earlier comment) "I Will Survive."
But Hank was right. The important thing was to stand up there in front of the room and let them know Emma Frost wasn't going anywhere.
"Crazy
I'm crazy for feeling so lonely"
Kitty, Peter, and Logan had migrated to the billiard tables, and they stayed at their game as Emma sang. However, Kitty nudged Peter, who leaned down to whisper something. . . that Emma wasn't going to worry about, because she had to keep singing this song --
"I'm crazy,
crazy for feeling so blue"
Hank, standing by the door, put his thumbs up at that one.
And then – providing, as she had long suspected, that his secondary mutation involved either the best or worst timing in the world – Scott Summers pushed open the front door.
"I knew
you'd love me as long as you wanted
And then someday
you'd leave me for somebody new."
Hank tapped him on the shoulder; he leaned forward and looked in surprise at the stage. Emma closed her eyes, not wanting to lose the flow of the words.
"Crazy . . .
For thinking that my love could hold you . . ."
Scott's voice crept into her mind, tentative. Sorry. I don't know what that was about --
Oh, don't you? She opened her eyes to see him in the back, spreading his arms in a shrug.
You'll have to do better than that, she answered.
I'm trying.
That's lovely, darling. But do be quiet and let me sing.
He smiled, folded his arms, and leaned back against the jukebox.
Emma let herself return his smile, and gave every ounce of her mediocre voice to the song's final lines.