A/N: Here's my first attempt at an X-men fic, so please be gentle. Not too
gentle, I mean, if something's crap, please tell me, but no undue flames,
por favor. And, with that.. Away we go.
Oh, and of course, I own nothing.
The morning light slanted through the pale yellow curtains bathing the room in a buttery wash. Anne stirred, the crisp, freshly washed cotton sheets rustling like leaves in an autumn wind. She slowly opened her eyes, the small, homey room coming into focus as the post-sleep blur began to wear off. She groaned and pulled the patchwork quilt up over head, pulling her legs into her chest and snuggling into her pillows. She sighed in the warmth of the quilted cocoon, smiling to herself as she wiggled her toes inside her socks. Bright pink. That was the color on her toes right now, but no one would know that, not through the socks. No one save Uncle Charles. But then again, he knew everything, so hiding a little bit of toe nail polish wasn't an issue for Anne. It was hiding it from everyone else that made her smile. Her: perfect, quiet Anne. So much like her Uncle that bright pink toe nail polish would've made them squirm, made them realize what she was. Normal. The familiar old pain hit her heart as the word entered her thoughts. Normal, ordinary, plain. She hated those words, hated what they meant, and hated more than anything else how much they applied to her. Because the truth was the only thing different about her were her bright pink toes. No gifts, powers or abilities had bestowed themselves on her at childhood. Born to mutant parents and taken in by her mutant Uncle to live with mutants her own age, she faced every day with the knowledge that she was a freak. At least in their world she was. In her own, she was barely noticeable.
She rolled over and let her arm loll out of the quilt, the almost frigid air conditioning hitting her wrist like an icicle. She'd often wondered why the mansion was always so cold. No one else seemed to notice or to mind. Perhaps the mutant's body temperatures were different than hers. It was definitely a possibility.
She sat up, gathering the quilt around her like a coat, and sleepily looked around the room, her face grimacing with the early morning. Her eyes squinted at the sunlight streaming through the curtains, those horrid yellow curtains the color of cheesy grits. Shed hated those curtains her whole life. Her mother had loved yellow, thought it was soothing. That was why she put them up in Anne's room. But Anne hated the color. Especially on those curtains. The only reason she had brought them when she moved in with Uncle Charles was because they were her mother's favorite things in the world, besides her family and peanut butter bagels. Those curtains were all she had left of her mother.
Anne yawned and slid off the bed, dragging the quilt behind her as her socked feet padded across the thick grey carpeting. She opened the large oak door to her room and shuffled into the hall, the quilt still following her like a puppy. Door after door went past as she made her way down the hall, the over head lamps sending a gentle glow downward every few feet.
No one else was up. No one else was usually up this early on Saturdays, but somewhere in the back of her mind Anne would wait to hear Scott walking behind her, or excited whispers coming from the girl's room. Oh, how she desperately wanted to go in there, to join Rouge and Kitty and Jubilee in their talks on the boys, classes, and bright pink toe nail polish. But she never dared step into their room, or anyone's room for that matter. It was off limits to her, their world was. So, she plodded by their closed doors, keeping her mind closed to any life inside, not wanting to remind herself of what she was missing.
Then came the noise.
She heard it as she neared the stairs, a clinking sound coming from the kitchen. She stopped and peered over the railing that over looked the main hall. Nothing. The checkerboard tiling glistened in the sunlight that slanted through the living room's Venetian blinds. The ferns in their large clay pots didn't rustle in the aftermath of an intruder's movements, and the clanking seemed to have disappeared. Anne shrugged. It was probably her imagination. She carefully thudded down the stairs in her quilted cloak like a queen entering a grand ballroom. Engrossed in her fantasy, she waved to imaginary dignitaries as they applauded her regal beauty and exquisite fashion sense. Then, she spotted him, right across from the stair case, the noble and much sought after prince. He smiled at her, and she smiled back in a cool manner. She lowered her head and batted her eyelashes at the dashing young man, who in turn stared at her with love and fascination. That is, until her socked foot hit the tiled floor and she slipped, falling back onto the stairs, her quilt falling all around her, and her imaginary prince disappeared.
She groaned and swatted the covers that surrounded her, until she heard the laughter. That low, rolling sound that she'd heard so many times before. She peaked out of the covers to see a pair of shiny black shoes and sleek silver wheels.
"Did the prince trip you up again, Annabelle?"
Anne sighed in embarrassed resignation. "Good morning Uncle Charles." She sat up and started pulling the quilt around her again, as the older man smiled down at her fondly.
"Good morning. Sleep well?"
"Of course I did." She mewed as she stood up and followed him as he began wheeling down the hall. "Who's in the kitchen?" she asked innocently, hoping her small fright earlier had some grounds.
"Logan, I believe. He's making breakfast. Would you care to join us?"
Anne thought of Logan, the Wolverine, and his cigars that were always smoking with the sweetest smell, his prickly face, thick with stubble and sweat.
"No, that's alright. I'm not hungry just yet." She smiled weakly, knowing he could see her misgivings. Charles merely nodded and smiled gently at his young niece.
"I think I can here the iris' blooming." He told her with a smile. Anne grinned and leaned over to kiss her uncle's smooth head before rushing out towards the backyard, every once in a while slipping on the slick floor. Charles laughed as he watched the cushioned girl disappear through the French doors.
The minute Anne stepped outside she dropped the quit from her shoulders, feeling much like Dorothy had in Oz. The vividness of the garden was almost blinding coming out of the monochrome and oak covered interior of the mansion. The world outside looked like a Matisse painting, a large water colored canvas where the paints had splished and run into each other, creating new colors. She looked behind her into the mansion, making sure no one else was around, before she let out an enthused yelp and began running through the yard, the dewy grass dampening her socked feet. She ran cartwheels and leapt into summersaults, bits of fallen leaves and grass sticking in her hair and attached to her pajamas. She pulled the socks off of her feet and ran her toes through the cool grass, smiling at the sensation. She lay back and squirmed slowly, letting her arms and legs explore the ground beneath her, totally unaware of anyone else in the world.
Not even the one who was watching her.
She started slightly as a bird shrieked in a nearby tree before taking sudden flight from its branches, shaking the limbs and rustling leaves with tremendous force for such a small creature. Anna sat up, not caring it her clothes were soaked through and covered in grass stains. She eyed the thick tree line that marked the end of the mansion's property. Nothing seemed to stir, no bushes rustled in the slight morning's breeze, no animal's seemed to move or to make any noise whatsoever. It was too quiet.
She reached for her socks, her hand uneasy and shaking as it snaked its way across the grass, her eyes never leaving the all-too-still forest. Her fingers felt around but could find nothing. Her face grew worried as she turned her head, still looking for those blasted socks. And she found them, in someone's hands.
Her eyes widened as she took him in, or what she could. He sat crouched, a few feet from her, the hood of his heavy coat up, hiding his face from view. She could see his smile, though, small yellowed teeth glinting in the few shadows of the garden, the shadows he seemed to stay to. In one of his pale green hands, lay her socks, clutched in his long, thick fingers.
"Looking for something?" he asked. Her eyes flinched in thought for a second. His voice, she thought, it's different. Lighter? No. more clipped. British, she thought, almost proud of herself for her quick deduction. So, the man before her was British, and in possession of her socks. Her mind quickly scanned the information she had and came to the realization that it didn't do her a damn bit of good. Nice job, Anne.
She offered him a small, awkward smile and jutted a hand out for her socks. The man quickly drew back, his legs propelling him with great agility and grace.
"May I have my socks back, please?" she asked, her voice more forced than polite. She wanted to get back inside, back with her Uncle Charles so he could make her a cup of hot chocolate and relieve her mind of socks and strangers.
The figure's smile widened and his clutch on her socks tightened. "I think I'll keep them for a little bit longer, if you don't mind."
"Yes, I do mind." She snapped, finding her carefree mood from a few minutes before gone and replaced with mounting irritation. She sprang forward to try and grab at the socks or the man or both, but ended up over shooting and fell on her face with a muted thud and less muted yelp. The man in the shadows laughed, a low, rumbling chuckle. The laugh of someone who was pleased with other's pain. Anne didn't like that sound.
She pushed herself up, her wrists slightly skinned from the rush with the grass, and aching. She grunted as she sat up, rubbing her wrists gingerly, her face displaying her discomfort.
"Wish your Uncle X was here to help you, hmn?" the stranger asked. But his voice was closer than it had been in the shadows. She turned her head and found a pair of glimmering yellow eyes with deep green splotches staring down at her. She started and nearly backpedaled away from the eyes, but a strong arm reached forward and caught the arch of her back, keeping her in place. Try as she might, she couldn't see anymore of the face than those almost sickening yellow eyes. Yellow, she thought, why did they have to be yellow?
"Why would Uncle Charles need to help me?" she asked, the stranger's closeness making it impossible for her to look at anything other than those eyes. Damn him.
Then, almost as if he could read her mind, he closed his eyes. He took a breath and sighed, and Anne's face widened as she felt his fingers on her spine. They moved slowly in delicate little circles all along her back. She marveled at how he could keep her stationary and do that at the same time. She felt herself beginning to swoon, to loose focus of the hidden face before her, her entire being getting caught up in the motion of his fingers.
"What are you doing?" she moaned in a whisper as she felt herself falling.
"Just sleep now, little niece. Mortimer will take care of you for now." He whispered into her hair. She felt his other arm slip around her as he pulled her relaxing body up onto his chest. She noticed how the bulge in his arms his right below her ribs, that he smelled like sea water, but not, and that his voice sounded best whispered in her hair before she passed into darkness.
The morning light slanted through the pale yellow curtains bathing the room in a buttery wash. Anne stirred, the crisp, freshly washed cotton sheets rustling like leaves in an autumn wind. She slowly opened her eyes, the small, homey room coming into focus as the post-sleep blur began to wear off. She groaned and pulled the patchwork quilt up over head, pulling her legs into her chest and snuggling into her pillows. She sighed in the warmth of the quilted cocoon, smiling to herself as she wiggled her toes inside her socks. Bright pink. That was the color on her toes right now, but no one would know that, not through the socks. No one save Uncle Charles. But then again, he knew everything, so hiding a little bit of toe nail polish wasn't an issue for Anne. It was hiding it from everyone else that made her smile. Her: perfect, quiet Anne. So much like her Uncle that bright pink toe nail polish would've made them squirm, made them realize what she was. Normal. The familiar old pain hit her heart as the word entered her thoughts. Normal, ordinary, plain. She hated those words, hated what they meant, and hated more than anything else how much they applied to her. Because the truth was the only thing different about her were her bright pink toes. No gifts, powers or abilities had bestowed themselves on her at childhood. Born to mutant parents and taken in by her mutant Uncle to live with mutants her own age, she faced every day with the knowledge that she was a freak. At least in their world she was. In her own, she was barely noticeable.
She rolled over and let her arm loll out of the quilt, the almost frigid air conditioning hitting her wrist like an icicle. She'd often wondered why the mansion was always so cold. No one else seemed to notice or to mind. Perhaps the mutant's body temperatures were different than hers. It was definitely a possibility.
She sat up, gathering the quilt around her like a coat, and sleepily looked around the room, her face grimacing with the early morning. Her eyes squinted at the sunlight streaming through the curtains, those horrid yellow curtains the color of cheesy grits. Shed hated those curtains her whole life. Her mother had loved yellow, thought it was soothing. That was why she put them up in Anne's room. But Anne hated the color. Especially on those curtains. The only reason she had brought them when she moved in with Uncle Charles was because they were her mother's favorite things in the world, besides her family and peanut butter bagels. Those curtains were all she had left of her mother.
Anne yawned and slid off the bed, dragging the quilt behind her as her socked feet padded across the thick grey carpeting. She opened the large oak door to her room and shuffled into the hall, the quilt still following her like a puppy. Door after door went past as she made her way down the hall, the over head lamps sending a gentle glow downward every few feet.
No one else was up. No one else was usually up this early on Saturdays, but somewhere in the back of her mind Anne would wait to hear Scott walking behind her, or excited whispers coming from the girl's room. Oh, how she desperately wanted to go in there, to join Rouge and Kitty and Jubilee in their talks on the boys, classes, and bright pink toe nail polish. But she never dared step into their room, or anyone's room for that matter. It was off limits to her, their world was. So, she plodded by their closed doors, keeping her mind closed to any life inside, not wanting to remind herself of what she was missing.
Then came the noise.
She heard it as she neared the stairs, a clinking sound coming from the kitchen. She stopped and peered over the railing that over looked the main hall. Nothing. The checkerboard tiling glistened in the sunlight that slanted through the living room's Venetian blinds. The ferns in their large clay pots didn't rustle in the aftermath of an intruder's movements, and the clanking seemed to have disappeared. Anne shrugged. It was probably her imagination. She carefully thudded down the stairs in her quilted cloak like a queen entering a grand ballroom. Engrossed in her fantasy, she waved to imaginary dignitaries as they applauded her regal beauty and exquisite fashion sense. Then, she spotted him, right across from the stair case, the noble and much sought after prince. He smiled at her, and she smiled back in a cool manner. She lowered her head and batted her eyelashes at the dashing young man, who in turn stared at her with love and fascination. That is, until her socked foot hit the tiled floor and she slipped, falling back onto the stairs, her quilt falling all around her, and her imaginary prince disappeared.
She groaned and swatted the covers that surrounded her, until she heard the laughter. That low, rolling sound that she'd heard so many times before. She peaked out of the covers to see a pair of shiny black shoes and sleek silver wheels.
"Did the prince trip you up again, Annabelle?"
Anne sighed in embarrassed resignation. "Good morning Uncle Charles." She sat up and started pulling the quilt around her again, as the older man smiled down at her fondly.
"Good morning. Sleep well?"
"Of course I did." She mewed as she stood up and followed him as he began wheeling down the hall. "Who's in the kitchen?" she asked innocently, hoping her small fright earlier had some grounds.
"Logan, I believe. He's making breakfast. Would you care to join us?"
Anne thought of Logan, the Wolverine, and his cigars that were always smoking with the sweetest smell, his prickly face, thick with stubble and sweat.
"No, that's alright. I'm not hungry just yet." She smiled weakly, knowing he could see her misgivings. Charles merely nodded and smiled gently at his young niece.
"I think I can here the iris' blooming." He told her with a smile. Anne grinned and leaned over to kiss her uncle's smooth head before rushing out towards the backyard, every once in a while slipping on the slick floor. Charles laughed as he watched the cushioned girl disappear through the French doors.
The minute Anne stepped outside she dropped the quit from her shoulders, feeling much like Dorothy had in Oz. The vividness of the garden was almost blinding coming out of the monochrome and oak covered interior of the mansion. The world outside looked like a Matisse painting, a large water colored canvas where the paints had splished and run into each other, creating new colors. She looked behind her into the mansion, making sure no one else was around, before she let out an enthused yelp and began running through the yard, the dewy grass dampening her socked feet. She ran cartwheels and leapt into summersaults, bits of fallen leaves and grass sticking in her hair and attached to her pajamas. She pulled the socks off of her feet and ran her toes through the cool grass, smiling at the sensation. She lay back and squirmed slowly, letting her arms and legs explore the ground beneath her, totally unaware of anyone else in the world.
Not even the one who was watching her.
She started slightly as a bird shrieked in a nearby tree before taking sudden flight from its branches, shaking the limbs and rustling leaves with tremendous force for such a small creature. Anna sat up, not caring it her clothes were soaked through and covered in grass stains. She eyed the thick tree line that marked the end of the mansion's property. Nothing seemed to stir, no bushes rustled in the slight morning's breeze, no animal's seemed to move or to make any noise whatsoever. It was too quiet.
She reached for her socks, her hand uneasy and shaking as it snaked its way across the grass, her eyes never leaving the all-too-still forest. Her fingers felt around but could find nothing. Her face grew worried as she turned her head, still looking for those blasted socks. And she found them, in someone's hands.
Her eyes widened as she took him in, or what she could. He sat crouched, a few feet from her, the hood of his heavy coat up, hiding his face from view. She could see his smile, though, small yellowed teeth glinting in the few shadows of the garden, the shadows he seemed to stay to. In one of his pale green hands, lay her socks, clutched in his long, thick fingers.
"Looking for something?" he asked. Her eyes flinched in thought for a second. His voice, she thought, it's different. Lighter? No. more clipped. British, she thought, almost proud of herself for her quick deduction. So, the man before her was British, and in possession of her socks. Her mind quickly scanned the information she had and came to the realization that it didn't do her a damn bit of good. Nice job, Anne.
She offered him a small, awkward smile and jutted a hand out for her socks. The man quickly drew back, his legs propelling him with great agility and grace.
"May I have my socks back, please?" she asked, her voice more forced than polite. She wanted to get back inside, back with her Uncle Charles so he could make her a cup of hot chocolate and relieve her mind of socks and strangers.
The figure's smile widened and his clutch on her socks tightened. "I think I'll keep them for a little bit longer, if you don't mind."
"Yes, I do mind." She snapped, finding her carefree mood from a few minutes before gone and replaced with mounting irritation. She sprang forward to try and grab at the socks or the man or both, but ended up over shooting and fell on her face with a muted thud and less muted yelp. The man in the shadows laughed, a low, rumbling chuckle. The laugh of someone who was pleased with other's pain. Anne didn't like that sound.
She pushed herself up, her wrists slightly skinned from the rush with the grass, and aching. She grunted as she sat up, rubbing her wrists gingerly, her face displaying her discomfort.
"Wish your Uncle X was here to help you, hmn?" the stranger asked. But his voice was closer than it had been in the shadows. She turned her head and found a pair of glimmering yellow eyes with deep green splotches staring down at her. She started and nearly backpedaled away from the eyes, but a strong arm reached forward and caught the arch of her back, keeping her in place. Try as she might, she couldn't see anymore of the face than those almost sickening yellow eyes. Yellow, she thought, why did they have to be yellow?
"Why would Uncle Charles need to help me?" she asked, the stranger's closeness making it impossible for her to look at anything other than those eyes. Damn him.
Then, almost as if he could read her mind, he closed his eyes. He took a breath and sighed, and Anne's face widened as she felt his fingers on her spine. They moved slowly in delicate little circles all along her back. She marveled at how he could keep her stationary and do that at the same time. She felt herself beginning to swoon, to loose focus of the hidden face before her, her entire being getting caught up in the motion of his fingers.
"What are you doing?" she moaned in a whisper as she felt herself falling.
"Just sleep now, little niece. Mortimer will take care of you for now." He whispered into her hair. She felt his other arm slip around her as he pulled her relaxing body up onto his chest. She noticed how the bulge in his arms his right below her ribs, that he smelled like sea water, but not, and that his voice sounded best whispered in her hair before she passed into darkness.