Title: The Fool of Fate
Author: m.jules
Summary: Everybody at the mansion is screwing up their destinies – and only
two people see it… and one of them is determined to fix it.
Rating:
R
Feedback: Yes.
All kinds welcome.
[email protected]
Disclaimer:
Carly’s mine. I own Fate. I even own Harry and The Spot, although
anybody who wants them is welcome to them.
Everybody else, on the other hand, belongs to Marvel and Fox. The title was taken from a quotation by
Alexander Pope.
Author’s
Notes: While this fic was not written in response
to them, it does incorporate two separate challenges from the DDFH list. One, the visual bunny that Nadine (I do have
the right person, don’t I?) uploaded with Marie, Kitty, and Jubes making the
front page of the New York Times with their risque Halloween costumes. And two, the That 70’s Show challenge that
Autumn issued a couple of months later.
They both just fit right in to what I was writing! Thanks you two. Fate’s reading choices were inspired by the personal collection
of a good friend of mine, but I personally have never read any of those books.
xXxXxXx
Part One: when fate summons
“The
individual must not merely wait and criticize, he must defend the cause the
best he can. The fate of the world will be such as the world deserves.”
--Albert Einstein (1879 - 1955)
Carly Rose Parker was convinced she was
unlucky—cosmically cursed. There was no
other possible explanation for the situation she found herself in. A non-mutant herself, nineteen-year-old
Carly had nonetheless been expelled from college and subsequently turned out of
her parents’ home when she adamantly defended the mutant cause one day in her
political science class. Unable to
support herself, Carly had wandered around the streets of New York City
aimlessly, stealing when begging left her hungry.
As a last ditch effort, she started stripping
in a little dive in Manhattan, sleeping in a cramped storage room that housed cases
of alcohol for the bar. She hated
stripping, but it kept her fed and sleeping in a (mostly) dry, (mostly) warm,
and (somewhat) safe place…not bad, if you weren’t too particular on remaining
ignorant of the true meaning of the phrase, “don’t let the bedbugs bite.” Still, as much as it sucked sometimes, she
wasn’t in a hurry to give it up. Fate,
however, had other plans.
“Leave him alone, Harry.”
“Back off, Irish,” Harry snapped, not lowering
the rifle at all. “E’s one o’ them
mutie freaks.”
“His money’s the same as everybody else’s,”
Carly – whose stripper name was Irish Rose – insisted. She knew she was in a precarious position;
speaking up for mutants had put her where she was, half-undressed in a filthy
Manhattan strip club, staring down the barrel of a gun that had originally been
pointed at the dark, sexy man sitting at the bar.
“Don’t worry about it, darlin’,” that man said
now in a low, growly voice that did interesting things to Carly’s pulse. “It ain’t worth it.”
Frowning, Carly watched as the man stood,
tossed a couple of bills onto the bar, and walked out, pulling a fedora down
firmly over his forehead.
“You ‘eard wha ‘e said,” Harry growled, poking
her a little with the rifle barrel.
“Now get back to work.”
If it hadn’t been for the whole
poking-with-the-gun bit, Carly might have sucked it up and done just that, sexy
mutant guy notwithstanding. As it was,
she was fed up with Harry’s treatment of her, the other girls, and the
customers…not to mention she was tired of sharing a bed with the
cockroaches. She wasn’t sure what kind
of plan she had, but she knew when he poked her that it didn’t involve sticking
around that two-bit joint any longer.
”I quit. Good night, Harry.”
And with that, she stole some unsuspecting
customer’s trench coat from the hat stand by the door and waltzed out into the
chilly Manhattan night, pulling the coat closed over her only-half-there
stripper costume. Fifteen minutes later
she was telling herself she was an idiot; twenty-five minutes later she was
seriously considering just curling up in Central Park and crying herself to
sleep. That was assuming she even made
it to Central Park without getting maimed, raped, or killed – or all three in
rapid succession.
“Y’know, God,” she shouted in the general
direction of the sky, “You could be really nice and do something here, since I
really haven’t done anything to deserve this.”
She continued marching down the street, uncertain about which direction
she was even heading, still muttering out loud. “I mean, I don’t even have a mutation. Right now I think I’d really like one. Say, the ability to make things appear—poof!—just by thinking
about them. That’d be nice. I’d be in a nice, warm room somewhere with
dinner on the table and a big, soft feather bed in the other room just waiting
for me to plop down on it…and I’d sit down to dinner and have a nice glass of
red wine with that sexy guy from the bar.
Yeah…that’s exactly what I’d do.”
She looked up to see the brick wall of a
dead-end alley staring her in the face and sighed, throwing her hands up in the
air. “Great, just great, Carly,” she
grumbled to herself, kicking an aluminum can down the alley and scuffing
her—very expensive—hooker boots. “D’ya
think next time you could pay attention to where you’re going so maybe you’ll
at least know where to direct the vultures to your decomposing corpse as you’re
passing them on the way to heaven?”
“I think the rats are more likely to get there
before the vultures,” commented a low voice behind her, and she whirled around
with an evil glare on her face. The
dark figure in the shadows only chuckled in amusement at her expression and
stepped out into the flickering light of the street lamp. Her knees nearly buckled in relief as she
recognized the man from the bar over whom she had just quit her job. A second later, the thought hit her that her
assumption of his intentions toward her could very well be totally
off-base. After all, as much as she
stuck up for them, not all mutants were nice, just like not all humans were
nice.
Damn. “Look, mister,” she started, trying to sound
hard-assed and unconcerned. “I don’t
know what ideas you have running through your head, but…” She trailed off suddenly as she realized she
didn’t have any clue what to say…and then said the first thing that occurred to
her. “But please don’t hurt me.”
Oh, shit.
Yeah, that was convincing.
He chuckled again and she backed away from him,
reaching into the pocket of her stolen trench coat and pulling out the first
thing her fingers wrapped around, pointing it at him. “You just…you just stay back,” she ordered, shaking her—whatever
she had—at him for emphasis. “Why don’t
you just run along home now and leave me alone.”
“What, so you can be hunted down by someone who
won’t be intimidated by that frightening-looking fountain pen you’re shaking at
me? I could do that…but then I’d have
to live with the knowledge that you probably ended up as a little nibble-treat
for the rats.”
She opened her hand and looked down at the
small metal object in it. Damn. He was right… what she’d hoped was some sort
of pocket knife had actually turned out to be a bleedin’ fountain pen. Just her bloody luck. “Fucking shit,” she muttered, throwing the
pen down in disgust.
He laughed outright then, tipping his fedora
back so that she could clearly see his face.
Damn, but he was a sexy motherfucker!
“Where do you live, kid? I’ll
walk you home.”
“I don’t have a home,” she muttered. “I used to sleep at the club, in the storage
room, but seein’ as I just quit my job, I don’t think they’re gonna let me
waltz back in askin’ for my old room back.”
“You didn’t quit because of me, did you?” he
demanded, sounding suddenly serious.
Vaguely offended at his implication that it had
been a stupid thing to do – although inwardly admitting that it *had*
been a stupid thing to do – she snapped, “No, it wasn’t because of you, you
arrogant asshole. I quit
because…because…I was tired of pulling cockroaches out of my ears when I woke
up every morning and because I was tired of dirty, smelly men grabbing my tits
and my ass every night and because…because…Harry’s an ass and he should learn
to treat people better.”
With the barest of smiles, he nodded. “So you don’t have a place to sleep now.”
She shrugged.
“Well, I mean, I’m sure there’s an empty bench or two in Central Park…”
“Don’t count on it,” he grumbled. “Some of those guys can be mean
motherfuckers if you ask ‘em to give up a bench.”
“You almost sound like you know what you’re
talking about,” Carly said softly, watching his face closely. His only response was to grunt and flicker
his eyes away from her for a second.
She took that as a yes and suddenly wanted to hug him…and not just so
she could have that delectable body pressed up against hers.
“I got a place, if ya don’t mind sharin’ your
space,” he said suddenly.
She blinked in surprised, but recovered
quickly. “Sure—and I’ll pay you. I mean, I don’t have any money, but…”
He waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about it.”
“No, really; I mean, I wouldn’t mind…it’s not
like—“
He shook his head and held up a hand to silence
her. “I said don’t worry about it,
kid. It’s no trouble. Besides,” he turned and started walking, “I
gave up hookers for Lent.”
She sniffed in mock offense as she fell into
step beside him. “I’m no hooker, thank
you very much,” she informed him primly.
“I’ve never taken money—or anything else—in exchange for sex.”
“So you’re just a slut, then.”
“Excuse me!
I am not!”
He raised an eyebrow at her skeptically as they
strolled down the street toward a motorcycle parked a few feet away.
“I’m not,” she insisted as he handed her a
helmet and climbed onto the bike, indicating that she should climb on behind
him. “I’ve only had sex once in my
entire life.”
This time he snorted in disbelief as put on his own helmet, kick-started the
motorcycle and pulled out into the street.
“Okay, so twice,” she admitted into the com-link as they roared toward
the highway. “But I was drunk and don’t
recall ever givin’ my permission, so I don’t really count that one.”
“Sorry to hear about that,” he commented
back. “So how’d you end up stripping in
a place like The Spot?”
“Antiquated ideas about free speech in
institutes of higher education,” she informed him bitterly. “I defended mutants in one of my college
classes and got kicked out the door. My
parents weren’t too happy about my ideas either, especially since they got me
expelled from a very exclusive college, so they booted me out too. Stripping beat out begging on the street
corner, if only by virtue of sleeping somewhere with a roof.”
He grunted thoughtfully in response and they
rode in silence for a while longer, Carly trying not to revel too obviously in
the fact that she had her arms wrapped around his waist and her cheek pressed
against his oh-so-broad back. Slut or
not, she figured she’d probably pay good money for a night in this guy’s
bed. She stifled a giggle as the
thought struck her that he could easily make a fortune as a gigolo.
Then it occurred to her – “Hey, what’s your
name?”
His chuckle was warm and raspy in the little
speaker and she thought it was completely unfair for any guy to be able to
sound that sexy over a cheap little com-link inside a motorcycle helmet. “Logan.
What’s yours?”
”Carly.” Somewhere in the back of her
mind, she heard the echo of something her roommate in college used to say: That’s my name. Remember it; you’ll be screaming it later. Right on the heels of that came a terrible,
terrible idea. “Ummm…what is
your mutation, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I heal.”
“You…huh?
You mean like, other people?”
“No, I have a healing factor. Damn near impossible to kill me.”
“Oh.
Well that’s nice to know. So
you’re not telepathic or anything?”
“Nope.”
**Thank you, God!**
“Although I’ve got these.”
Before she knew what was happening, he was
holding his left hand up where she could see it…and, oh God, were
those—“Claws…?” Holy shit. But her greatest worry was answered: he
hadn’t heard all those terribly embarrassing thoughts running through her
head…although that wasn’t a guarantee that he didn’t somehow know anyway.
Shit.
***
Logan did know. It wasn’t really any surprise to him, but he could feel it in the
tenseness of her body, the way she held on to him, the way she was arched slightly
into his back, pressing herself against him.
On top of that…he could smell her.
And to be honest, she was a looker.
Pretty face, silky, wavy brown hair, big blue eyes and legs that just
didn’t end. Her figure left nothing to
be desired…and she wanted him. Bad.
He couldn’t say the idea didn’t appeal to
him—he toyed with the thought of stopping the motorcycle and taking her right
there on the ground. That trench coat
she had would make a great blanket. He
could feel the growl rumbling in his chest as the images struck his mind of
what she would look like, sweaty and desperate, flushed, clinging to his biceps
as she rocked above him, her breasts bouncing enticingly… He fought the urge to close his eyes as the
fantasy deepened and he could hear her moans and feel her thighs clenched
around his hips… he leaned up to kiss her and when they pulled apart the white
streaks in her hair fell against his neck and he heard himself moan, “Marie…”
Shit!
Shit, shit, *shit!* The
motorcycle took a small, unplanned swerve and his passenger tightened her grip
on him. “Are you all right,…Logan?”
The voice that was not Marie’s, that was
Carly’s, the unwilling stripper he’d just rescued from street rats and shadowy
hit men, sounded cautious and oh-so-slightly frightened in the little com-link.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m all right. Sorry ‘bout that.”
“Uh…no problem.”
“I’m gonna take off my helmet for the rest of
the way. You need somethin’, just hit
me or yell in my ear,” he told her. The
cold air in his face should be good.
Yeah…might snap him out of that little moment of insanity. With that, he reached up with his left hand
and pulled off the helmet, tucking it securely in front of him. The sting of late-fall air was sobering, and
he was glad. The thought flashed
through his mind of the birthday card Marie had gotten for him last year…not
that they knew when his birthday was, but she’d picked a date, seemingly at
random, and declared that was when she was buying him birthday presents…
On the front of the card was a picture of a
gorgeous, sleek motorcycle. On the
inside was the succinct sentiment: “The happiest guy is the one with the most
bugs in his teeth. Happy Birthday.” He’d loved it. He’d damn near had it framed.
As it was, it was still on his dresser where he could see and grin at it
every day.
In fact, come to think of it, his arbitrary
birthday was coming up pretty darn soon – November 11. It had done something to him when he glanced
at the calendar one day and saw what November 11 was – Remembrance Day. Of course, on American calendars, it was
Veteran’s Day, but Marie always had a Canadian calendar in her room. She’d chosen Remembrance Day for his
birthday. When he asked her why, she
had just shrugged. “Seemed
appropriate,” she’d told him lightly, but he’d seen the seriousness in her
expression.
He supposed it was appropriate. He was the veteran of many private wars,
some of which he couldn’t remember. On
a day when the entire country was honoring the survival and sacrifices of the
veterans of public wars, Marie had decided to honor his existence. His survival. His sacrifice.
Damn it all to bloody fucking hell. Was she trying to kill him?
***
Carly had sensed the mood shift. She wasn’t sure what had been responsible,
but she’d felt it when his muscles went tense under her hands—and not in a
pleasant way. Then there’d been that
little swerve, and the strain in his voice when he told her he was taking off
his helmet. Since then, holding on to
him had felt like wrapping her arms around a marble sculpture and there was a
decidedly not-good set to his jaw.
All she could do was hope she wasn’t the cause.
She didn’t have much time to worry about it
though, because there was a fucking huge mansion looming up in the
distance and…oh, shit, was he pulling into the gate?
“Please state your name and passcode,”
requested the little box outside the gate as she pulled off her helmet in awe.
“Logan,” he growled. He turned around and looked over his shoulder at her, and she put
her fingers in her ears and began humming softly so she couldn’t hear his
passcode. He muttered something else
into the box and she let her hands fall back down to his hips.
“Identity confirmed. Welcome home, Logan.”
“Shit,” Carly hissed in his ear. “This is your ‘place’? Maybe I should ask what the hell *you*
were doing in The Spot!”
He grunted and roared up the driveway, coming
to a very sudden stop inside a garage among several other sleek, shiny
vehicles. He hopped off the bike,
hanging his helmet over the handlebars and casually swaggered toward the
house. She remained where she was,
cowering on the motorcycle seat, clutching the helmet like a lifebuoy.
At the door, he realized she wasn’t behind him
and turned. “You comin’ in or would you
rather sleep out here?”
“Um…I think I might sleep out here,” she told
him honestly. Despite the fact that she
had been attending one of the most exclusive colleges in New York, her tuition
had been funded by a tasty scholarship and several hefty loans that
were—thankfully enough—in her parents’ names and couldn’t be forced upon
her. She hoped they couldn’t be,
anyway. She’d never even set foot in a
house like this and in her ratty stripper costume and stolen trench coat, she
wasn’t too eager to do so now.
“Right,” he snorted. “So when Remy comes out here in the morning he’ll find you curled
up on the seat of his Porsche and think I brought him home an early Christmas
present. Get up and come inside!”
Remy?
Who was Remy? Damn…that would be
just her luck. Sexiest guy she’d ever
met in her life and he was probably gay.
He didn’t look like the gay type, though….maybe Remy was his son? But that would be just as bad, because it
would imply that he was married…he couldn’t be married, could he? Guy like that, at The Spot, no ring…no way
his wife would let him get away with that.
“Logan?
Is that you?”
Damn.
He *was* married.
“Marie, what the hell are you still doin’ up?”
Then again, maybe not. That hadn’t sounded very
guilty-husband-just-caught-coming-in-from-a-strip-club-at-2-am. It had sounded more like an exasperated big
brother…or father.
“Jubes and I bought our Halloween costumes
today,” she chirped, coming out into the garage in something Carly was certain
she’d seen somewhere…
“Hey, did you get that from Mike’s, downtown?”
The girl’s head snapped around as she noticed
Carly for the first time, and Carly suddenly felt very, very stupid for
speaking up. The girl was gorgeous,
with two white streaks in her hair, framing her face. Must be part of the costume, she thought. It worked on her.
“Uh, yeah.
Yeah I did.” Aside from her
initial startlement, however, the girl – Marie, had he said? – seemed pretty
okay with her being there. Maybe he
brought home strange half-dressed women all the time. The thought was at once non-surprising and slightly depressing.
“I thought so.
I almost bought it once—I get a lot of my costumes there. Or used to.”
“Oh, you’re big into Halloween too?”
“Uh, no…um, stripper costumes. I am…was…a stripper in Manhattan before your
uh…” she gestured to Logan, not sure what to call him. “Friend here rescued me tonight.”
Logan grunted and started to go into the house,
and Marie made a quick “excuse me” gesture to Carly as she grabbed for his
arm. “Logan hang on,” she
demanded. “You haven’t told me what you
think of my outfit!” At this point,
Carly was almost certain Marie had winked in her direction.
“No way in fucking hell you’re wearin’ that,
Marie,” was his growled answer.
She pulled off that pout rather well, Carly
noticed. She’d probably be pretty good
if she ever wanted to get into the business herself.
“Aw, Logan, why not? Don’t you think it’s cute?”
Logan raised an eyebrow more sharply than Carly
thought was humanly possible – then again, maybe that was part of his mutation
– and raked Marie from head to toe with a cold eye. “No,” he told her in a voice that was just a little too
gruff. “I don’t.”
Marie looked crestfallen as Logan pulled his
arm out of her grip and stalked into the house. “Damn it,” Marie muttered, and Carly was almost certain she’d
stamped her foot petulantly.
That was when Carly knew. Maybe not about Logan’s marital status, but
definitely about the relationship between the two. She was his best friend’s little sister, or something like that,
and she had a god-awful crush on him…and despite the fact that he was convinced
she was too young for him, he was attracted to her…which made him feel like a
pervert and therefore put him into a very bad mood. Classic.
“I wouldn’t take it too hard,” Carly assured
her softly, examining the way her soft curves filled out the Little Red Riding
Hood ensemble. “’Cute’ just wasn’t the
exact word he had in mind.”
Marie looked at her hopefully. “You really think so?”
Carly grinned.
“Honey, up until about two hours ago, I stripped for a living. I recognize that look. His vocabulary was severely reduced at the
moment, and ‘cute’ was just one of those words that didn’t make the
cut.”
The look on Marie’s face was almost painful in
its girlish hope and triumph, and Carly almost felt bad for encouraging her
until she noticed other signs…like the hardness behind her eyes and delicate
frown-lines at the corners of her mouth.
She might be able to pull off schoolgirl-crush like a pro, but she
wasn’t as innocent as one might think upon first glance…and somehow, despite
the skimpy costume, she did look innocent.
That was the first time Carly had the
premonition that this girl was Trouble.
xXxXx
“Be
extremely subtle, even to the point of formlessness. Be extremely mysterious,
even to the point of soundlessness. Thereby you can be the director of the
opponent's fate.”
--Sun-tzu (~300 BC), The Art of War. Emptiness
and Fullness
Her previous studies at the university,
combined with her natural propensity for research and fact-finding, had enabled
Carly to quickly carve a place for herself at Xavier’s mansion. In the nearly five years she’d been working
alongside Hank McCoy as his medical assistant, Carly had learned that some
things just…were. It was a given that
Remy flirted with anything remotely female, Scott took charge of any situation,
Logan growled and acted like a general bad-ass, and due to Hank McCoy’s
aversion to coffee, in the mornings the Medi Lab tended to smell enticingly of
chai tea.
That was quite probably why when she walked in
that morning and was met with the strong aroma of what she immediately
identified as Barnie’s Santa’s White Christmas coffee, she stopped dead in her
tracks. “Hank?”
“Ah, good morning, Miss Parker!” he called out
from his workstation across the room.
At least, that’s where she thought he was, but as all she could see was
a stack of papers taller than her head, she wasn’t quite sure until his
friendly blue face peeked around the side.
“Hank, if I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a
million times. Call me Carly.”
“Yes, yes,” he agreed hurriedly, going back to
whatever formula he was working on.
“Whatcha got there, Twinkie?” she asked, peering
over his shoulder.
“It is a formula that I suspect might
allow—“ He paused, having suddenly
heard what she called him. “I beg your
pardon—Twinkie?”
She shrugged.
“You call me Miss Parker, I call you Twinkie. It’s a new idea I came up with this morning. About five seconds ago actually.”
“Hmm,” he pondered. “I do prefer to be addressed by ‘Hank,’ ‘Dr. McCoy,’ or ‘Beast.’”
“See, now I don’t get that. If was gonna pick your codename, I’d’ve
picked ‘Twinkie’.”
“Miss Parker—Carly—what, as they say,
are you getting at?”
She grinned.
“I’m sorry, Hank. I’m just
punchy this morning. How come you’re
drinking coffee?”
“I…I simply desired coffee this morning.”
“You hate coffee.”
“It just … smelled yummy.”
For the second time in under
fifteen minutes, she froze, momentarily speechless. “’It smelled *yummy*’?” she repeated. “Not, ‘The temptation of the aroma overcame me’ or…or…whatever
Hank-ism would normally go there?”
“Hank-ism?”
“Something is really weird this morning. I’m going to go check my calendar upstairs
and see if it’s a full moon tonight.
Here’s the charts from last week…they’re all updated. If you need anything, just call me. Otherwise, I’ll be back down as soon as I’ve
solved this mystery.”
And mystery it was. It wasn’t a full moon or any kind of weird religious
holiday…Halloween wasn’t even for three more weeks…and yet in the span of the
morning, she managed to find Jubilee in the library, wearing no makeup,
completely engrossed in A Light in August; Remy asking Kurt what was involved
in being a monk in a seriously-considering-changing-my-religion tone of voice;
Scott planning a weekend trip to Atlantic City; and Logan in the garden,
weeding the chrysanthemums. (The only
comforting thing about that last one was that he still had a cigar clamped
between his teeth. At least some things
were still normal.)
<Professor…>
<Yes, Carly?>
<What’s going on around here?>
<I’m not certain, to tell you the
truth. Ororo and I have been trying to
decipher that all morning.>
<So have I.>
<If you come across anything, please do
let me know. I shall do the same.>
<Thank you, Professor.>
<Oh, and Carly, one more thing.>
<Yes, Professor?>
<Do you have any idea how to get the Blue
Yoshi?>
Plopping down ungracefully on the mansion
steps, Carly buried her head in her hands and groaned. She could feel a major headache coming on.
***
At ten after one in the afternoon, Carly was
still on her mission to discover just what the hell was going on at the Xavier
mansion and getting more frustrated by the moment. At twelve after one, she got her answer: it was Fate.
Fate was the new mutant in the mansion, picked
up in Battery Park a week before. Her
real name remained unknown and her mutation was still a mystery. Her hair was a shockingly attractive
combination of red-on-black and her eyes were such a pale shade of blue they
were almost colorless. She was quiet,
dressed Goth-style, and kept to herself most of the time, although on the rare
occasions she’d spoken with her, Carly had discovered that Fate knew almost
everything going on in the mansion.
“Fate?”
The girl’s too-pale face looked up from the
book she was reading. Carly tilted her
head slightly to read the title on the spine – Salman Rushdie’s “The Satanic
Verses.” Big surprise, she
thought. “Gotta question,” Carly
continued, unfazed. “You have a
second?”
Fate nodded and Carly smiled, sitting down on
the opposite end of the library couch from her. Two more books on the floor caught her eye, and she paused for a
half-second to process the titles on their covers – “Midnight’s Children,”
another Rushdie book, and Carl Sagan’s “Billions And Billions.” Interesting reading.
“There’s been something weird going on around
here, and I was wondering if you knew what’s causing it.”
“Weird?” Fate asked quietly, with just a hint
of trepidation. Carly thought that was
extremely telling – Fate never seemed surprised or at all bothered by anything.
“Yeah – a lot of people aren’t acting like
themselves. Logan’s weeding the
flowerbed, the Professor’s playing Super Nintendo, and Hank’s drinking coffee,
just to name a few. Any idea what’s
going on?”
“Shit,” Fate muttered. “I thought I’d figured out how to control
it.”
“Uh-oh,” Carly frowned. “Does this have something to do with your
mutation? You know, the one that you
won’t tell any of us about?”
Fate gave her a lopsided grin that looked more
like a grimace and nodded. “Yeah. My mutation… it affects other people. Other mutants, actually; it doesn’t have an
effect on non-mutants that I know of.”
“Which would explain why I’m still as close to
normal as I usually am,” Carly offered.
“Yeah.
Anyway – when somebody in my general proximity is making life choices
that interfere with their personal destiny, my mutation causes them to act out of
character…an outward symptom to illustrate their inner disharmony with fate.”
“Cool!” Carly blurted. “I mean…wow! You shoulda told us that – that’s awesome!”
Fate only shook her head and smiled with sad
amusement. Carly Parker was well-known
to the residents of the mansion for two reasons – her non-mutant status and her
great envy of everyone with a mutation, even Rogue, who insisted that her
mutation was the shittiest thing that could ever happen to a person. Carly had responded that life-sucking skin
would have come in handy back when she was stripping in The Spot, and Rogue had
never said another word on the subject.
After a few moments to think over what Fate had
told her, Carly piped up. “But—what the
hell? I mean, what choices are they
making?”
Fate shrugged.
“I don’t have a clue. That’s up
to them to decipher.” She sighed. “I’ve been pretty good at controlling it for
awhile – but I guess being around so many mutants who are all making
anti-destiny choices is more of a strain than I realized.”
”Would that explain why only some of them are affected?” Carly mused. “I mean, I know for a fact there are a
couple of mutants in the mansion who are making unwise choices, and they don’t
seem affected at all.”
“Are you sure they’re not affected?” Fate
returned. “Sometimes the aberration is
subtle.”
From the gleam that leaped into Carly’s eye,
Fate knew that everyone in the mansion was about to undergo intense
observation, and with a half-smile went back to her reading. Whatever else happened next, it certainly
wouldn’t be boring!
***
Part Three: on fate and pre-destination
"I do not believe in a fate that falls on men however they
act; but I do believe in a fate that falls on them unless they act."
-- Gilbert Keith Chesterton (1874-1936),
There
were rumors going around the mansion that Carly Rose Parker was, indeed, a
mutant and just keeping it a secret.
According to one popular theory, her “oh I wish I had a mutation!”
mantra was only an act, and her success in the Medi Lab with Hank was due to an
unfair advantage on her part. (This
last was Jean Grey’s sentiment after the perky little ex-stripper replaced the
good doctor in the Research Department.)
For her part, Carly just shrugged and graciously fielded compliments
from her boss on her uncanny knack for getting to the bottom of things.
She
insisted it was no mutation, simply a part of her Irish family’s heritage –
they liked to know what was really going on and would kick anybody’s ass who
tried to bullshit them. (Of course, if
Hank wanted to flatter her, who was she to argue?) Either way it was genetic, and Carly wasted no time making her
talent work for her.
She
watched the residents of the mansion carefully, observing each and every
aberration in their behavior. A switch
from fruit juices to a steady diet of whiskey (Ro) or from a ponytail to a
crew-cut (Betsy) was suddenly attributed not to a simple change of mood or
opinion, but to a choice that didn’t agree with their personal destinies. It wasn’t until she was lying awake in bed
at half-past midnight that she finally realized what everybody’s problem was,
and she’d be damned if she waited until morning to solve it.
The
first door she stopped at was Kitty’s and Jubilee’s. She banged loudly and received for her troubles a loud, succinct,
“Fuck off!” She grinned. Yep, Kitty was definitely on the list of
star-crossed lovers in the mansion. She
knocked again and this time was greeted with a rumpled, bleary-eyed Jubilee.
“May
I help you?” the young Asian asked politely and Carly repressed a shudder. She had to get everybody fixed, and soon –
all this uncharacteristic behavior was giving her the willies.
“You’re
screwing with fate,” Carly informed her, belatedly realizing that the girl
might misinterpret that statement to refer to the mutant Fate who was currently
sleeping two doors down. “You’re
denying your destiny. Now for fuck’s
sake, fix it. Get it on with Remy before
the world comes to an end.”
Ignoring
Jubilee’s consternation, Carly leaned further into the room and said a little
more loudly, “And Kitty, if you don’t make a move on Scott within the next
week, I’m holding you personally responsible for any pigs that start flying or
snow-balls forming in hell, got it?”
Satisfied that she’d done her duty, she traipsed further down the hall to
Rogue’s room. She banged on the door
several times, but got no answer. It
wasn’t unusual – Rogue slept like the dead – but that didn’t mean she was
giving up. After she’d been standing
there for fifteen minutes, knocking loud enough that Scott (a sound sleeper in
his own right) stuck his head out of his door and groused, “Go the fuck away,
Carly!”, she pulled the barrette out of her hair and proceeded to pick the
lock. (Hanging out with Remy on the
weekends was good for more than just a little attention.)
When
the door swung open to reveal an empty room and a meticulously made bed, she
spun on her heel and high-tailed it to Logan’s room, hoping against hope that
those two had gotten their heads on straight and done her job for her.
As
she approached the door, loud moans could be heard coming from within.
Things were definitely looking up, she thought. Crossing her fingers, she crept closer and pressed her ear to the
door.
For a moment there was nothing distinguishable – just grunts and groans and a
couple of “Oh God!”s from Logan, but then finally she heard a muffled female
voice and held her breath…
”Oohhh, Logan…that’s it, sugar…right there.”
“God,
yeah…”
”Mmm…just a little…higher…yeah…”
Feeling
her cheeks grow hotter by the second, Carly lingered for just a few more
moments… the voice bore a Southern accent and was using Rogue’s common
endearment, but something just didn’t sound right… and after they came, she
found out what it was.
“Thanks.” Carly furrowed her brow – Logan’s voice was
detached, professional…and she heard the distinct sound of heavy leather
slapping down on wood – a wallet being tossed onto a dresser. “Here’s your two hundred…and here’s your
extra seventy for the gloves and the wig.”
“And
thirty more for the Southern accent…sugar.”
Carly
cringed at the distinct Manhattan twang now evident in the woman’s voice and
ground her teeth together. Everything
in her said to barge through the door and strangle the Wolverine…everything,
that is, but her still-intact self-preservation instinct. She heard movement inside and darted quickly
into the shadows at the far end of the hall, ducking down into the darkest
corner and watching as a woman strode out of Logan’s room on impossibly high
heels, pulling off a brown-and-platinum streaked wig and fluffing out her red
hair. Groaning, she let her forehead
sink down onto her knees and pounded a fist on the floor, not caring if Logan
heard or not.
The
door to Logan’s room closed behind the woman without incident, however, and
Carly stalked down the hall to Rogue’s room, determined to wait for her there.
***
My fate cannot be mastered; it can only be collaborated with and
thereby, to some extent, directed. Nor am I the captain of my soul; I am only
its noisiest passenger."
-- Aldous Leonard Huxley (1894-1963), "Brave
New World"
Rogue
returned at two-fifteen am and to find an extremely pissed-off Irish
ex-stripper itching for a fight.
“What
the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Excuse
me?” Rogue returned, flipping on the light to reveal Carly Parker standing in
the middle of the room, fists propped on her hips. “What the hell are *you* doing in my room?”
“Waiting
for you to get home!” Carly exclaimed as if it should be obvious. “Why the hell were you out with Colossus?”
“I
like him,” Rogue shrugged.
“You
don’t even know him,” Carly snarled.
“Just like you didn’t know Hank and you didn’t know Bobby.” Carly had spent the hour and a half waiting
for Rogue in contemplation of her friend’s romantic history and had come to
some very upsetting conclusions. “You
went out with them because they could touch you – and it’s the same thing
you’re doing to Peter now!” She shook
her head. “It’s a mistake, Rogue. A huge, fucking mistake, and you’re fucking
with destiny. You’re seriously screwing
up some lives – and more than just your own.”
She
began ticking items off on her fingers, illustrating her points. “You went out with Remy despite the fact
that one of your best friends has been in love with him since the first day he
showed up –“
“I
didn’t know about that then!” Rogue protested.
“—you
even chased after Scott when he and Jean broke up, although I’m not sure
whether that was more to get back at Jean and Logan than anything else—“
“That
had nothing to do with it,” Rogue defended herself angrily. “Ah *like* Scott.”
Carly
barely registered the thickness of Rogue’s accent as the other girl got more
and more worked up.
“You’re
not the only one, though…oh, no. I
admit, Jubilee and Kitty have done their fair share of playing with hearts they
had no business toying with – do you remember how long it took Bobby and St.
John to get together after those two double-dated and double-dumped them? And Logan!
God, don’t get me started on Logan… he went searching for a woman who
doesn’t exist because a planted memory – a fucking fake memory! – made him
think that, once upon a time, he’d been in love with her. Didn’t matter that he didn’t remember a
fucking thing about her and probably wouldn’t love her the same way now even if
he did find her waiting for him, he just latched on to the fact that, once upon
a time, he thought he’d been in love.”
She
threw up her hands in exasperation.
“For pete’s sake! You kids
change partners more often than square dancers!” Not giving Rogue a chance to respond, she breezed out the door,
turning to give her one last piece of her mind. “Get it right, Marie. Get
it right before something goes seriously wrong and we can’t fix it.”
Rogue
stood staring silently at her empty doorway for a good two minutes after Carly
disappeared. She’d known for awhile
that Logan was her destiny, but she’d given up on it. Now, though…she nodded once, decisively. She’d take Carly’s advice – but tomorrow. Right now, she needed sleep.
***
"Accept the things to which fate binds you, and love the
people with whom fate brings you together, but do so with all your heart."
-- Marcus Aelius Aurelius (121-180 AD),
“Miss
Parker—“
“Carly,”
she corrected automatically.
“Carly,”
Hank agreed quietly.
He
was silent for a long moment, and Carly finally looked up from the charts she
was comparing to meet his eyes. “Yes,
Hank?”
His
gaze flickered away from her down to the floor, and he cleared his throat
awkwardly. Putting down her pen, she
turned in her chair to face him fully, looking up at him with attentive
curiosity. Ever since she’d gone on her
rampage five weeks ago to get everybody together (and it had mostly worked –
Rogue and Logan were spending every spare second in each other’s company, the
Professor and ‘Ro were giving each other long looks over the breakfast table,
Scott and Kitty had developed a penchant for “short walks” that lasted all day,
and Remy and Jubilee had been moved into a soundproofed room within a week),
Carly had been tirelessly working to wean Hank off coffee and move him back to
chai tea.
In
other words, she was flirting shamelessly with him.
”I was…uh, that is to say, the idea had occurred to me—has occurred to me,
often—that—perhaps—“ He trailed off
uncomfortably and sat down at his desk.
“Never mind, Miss Parker.”
Frowning,
she tilted her head and regarded him across their adjoining desks. Just four days ago, she’d pushed them
together so that when they were seated at their desks, they were facing each
other. When Hank had inquired as to her
reason, she’d only shrugged and said it seemed like a good idea to her.
Now,
she rose silently and retreated to the Bunsen burners in the back of the
lab. Without a word, she set about heating
a beaker of water and pouring it into a thick ceramic mug. Reaching under the counter, she pulled out a
bag of pale brown powder and shook some into the mug, stirring it with a nearby
convenient measuring spoon. Breathing
deeply of the scented steam, she carried the mug with her and set it down in
front of Hank, picking up the mug he’d brought in with him and transferring it
to her desk.
The
look he gave her was one of extreme puzzlement, and she sat on the edge of his
desk, propping her feet on one of the open drawers. “I like coffee,” she told him matter-of-factly. “You hate it. You like chai tea.” She
nodded at the cup she’d set on his desk.
“This is how it is.”
“Miss
Parker—“
”Carly.”
“Carly…I
fail to see the significance of this matter to you. I don’t mean to be impolite or… or dense, as they say… but may I
ask what this is about?”
She
nodded, pursing her lips. “It’s fate,
Hank,” she said finally. “I’ve worked
alongside you for over four and a half years now, and I’ve come to the conclusion
that I love you. It’s as simple and as
complicated as that.”
When
she chanced a glance at his expression, she found him sitting in wide-eyed,
open-mouthed shock. “Say something,
Hank,” she pleaded softly.
“Oh
my stars and garters,” he whispered.
“I—yes, yes, I believe you are correct, Miss—Carly. It is…it is fate.”
She
threw him a lopsided grin and shyly returned her gaze to her lap. “Mmmhmm,” she said quietly. “I thought so.”
xXxXxXx
More Author’s Notes: Okay,
so it went a little off-course there at the end from where it started out. That’s what you get when you get a (mostly)
unbeta’d fic (if it hadn’t been for Taryn’s last minute preview, it would’ve
REALLY sucked) on a day when I’m really too tired to be writing at all and I
have three other stories clamoring for my attention. Carly just wanted to be finished, and I decided I’d let her have
her way, since she’s been so gosh-darned patient. My apologies for the skeletal form of the last little bit and not
pursuing a few sub-plot-lines that I know made themselves evident throughout
the story. Bad writer. ;)