Kitty, watching his face, made a small, surprised sound. “Peter,” she said tightly, “I told you before, you need to be careful of Callisto. She’s not used to kindness.” She turned and walked away, her back eloquently stiff.
Peter sat back in his chair. Wonderful, he thought in disgust. Now I have made them both angry. He looked at the shreds of paper on the table. And I don’t even know why.
He puzzled over it on and off most of the day, and went to bed no nearer to an answer than he had been at breakfast.
He fell asleep quickly, and that night, for the first time in many weeks, he dreamt of Szaji and her death. As always, he tried to prevent it, and as always, he failed. He held her in his arms and watched the light go out of her eyes, and the grief burned through his limbs like a fuse,„and when it reached his heart it burst outward, sweeping fire before it. He struggled to cry out, but the fire consumed his breath and he could make no sound. After some indeterminable time, the pain stopped, leaving only the echo of itself along his nerves.
He sat up and put his hand to his head—and touched organic steel. “That looked like a right bitch.”
It was Callisto’s voice, and he squinted to see her in the dark.
He heard a click, and the bedside light flared on. He threw a hand up to shield his eyes, and when they had adjusted, he saw that Callisto was sitting in the chair beside the bed.
“I heard you yell,” she said, “and came to see what was wrong.”
“It was a bad dream,” he said, still not quite believing she was there.
“What kind of bad dream?” She sounded idly curious, but there was something in her expression that told him she seriously wanted to know. “It’s all right,” she said softly when he hesitated. “You don’t have to tell me. Might make you feel better, though.”
“I. . . dreamt of Szaji. Of her death. She died to save me, and I. .. I could not prevent it.” He put his head in his hands. “I loved her, and I could not save her.”
He heard her move, felt her fingers on his shoulder, a tentative, brief touch, and then she moved away. “You can’t always save them,” she said in a low, bitter voice. “No matter how hard you try.”
He looked up. She was standing with her back to him, her shoulders hunched and her arms wrapped around herself. He had never heard her admit defeat before, and it sent a chill down his spine. He went to her and laid a hand on her shoulder.
“And yet you do not stop trying. We do not stop trying.”
“Yeah, we keep tilting at those windmills. What kind of fools does that make us?”
‘‘Hopeful ones.”
She gave a short bark of a laugh. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you that hope will sink its teeth and claws into you and leave your guts all over the floor?”
He turned her around to face him. “If you had no hope, then why did you keep reading to Jessie?”
Her face contorted and she took a deep, hitching breath. “Screw you, Tin Man,” she whispered, turning away. “And screw the Marauders. If I ever find them, I will make them pay for every Morlock who suffered at their hands. Especially the children.” She wrapped her arms around her middle again. “God, the children ... I should have . . .” “Hush.” Colossus curled an arm around her, pulling her back to rest against his chest. “Sometimes you cannot save them, no matter how hard you try.”
“That sucks.”
“I know.”
They stood there for a long time, and since Callisto, the bitter and cynical Morlock leader, would never cry, Colossus ignored the tears that occasionally fell on his arm.
Eventually Callisto shook herself, and Colossus stepped back.
“I should go,” she said. “You need your sleep.” Keeping her back to him, she started toward the door.
“Wait,” he said, and she paused. “I would rather talk than sleep, if you would not mind keeping me company. I would like to know about the Morlocks. To remember them, if it would not be too hard to speak of them.”
Callisto turned around. “No,” she said, “It would be good to remember them.” She came back and sat down. “Thank you.”
She talked into the wee hours, more than Colossus had ever imagined she would, more than he’d ever heard her say in all the time he’d known her put together, and finally fell asleep in the chair. He picked her up and tucked her into his bed, then looked ruefully at the chair. It was far too small for him. He sighed and stretched out on the floor.
Loud voices outside his door woke him. Callisto was gone, but she must have just left, because hers was one of the voices. The other was Kitty’s. Colossus groaned. The two of them treated each other with a cordial civility most of the time, but their conversation now sounded neither cordial nor civil. He reached for a robe and pulled it on as he opened the door.
“Oh, really?” Kitty was saying hotly. “I sure know what it looks like.” * ' '
“Looks can be deceiving, kid,” Callisto retorted.
“You’d better be careful, Callisto,” Kitty said, “because if you hurt him, you’ll regret it.”
Peter, recognizing that Kitty was making a serious threat, stepped through the door to stand between them. “I believe I can take care of myself, Kitty,” he said mildly. Kitty flushed and began to stammer an apology.
“Oh, don’t worry, kid,” Callisto said, and shocked Peter by insinuating herself under his arm and laying her hand on his chest. “I have no intention of hurting him. Unless he wants me to.” She slid her fingers underneath the lapel of the robe and looked up at him.
Peter stared down at her, unable to say anything in his amazement. She was smiling. Callisto, whose idea of a smile was a wolfish, too-many-teeth-to-be-friendly grin, was smiling at him. Flirting with him. And the way her fingers were moving underneath the robe gave the definite impression that she wasn’t doing it entirely for Kitty’s benefit. That thought scalded him out of his stupor. Carefully, so as not to bruise her wrist again, he lifted her hand from his chest, shifting as he did it so that she was no longer pressed against his side.
“Comrade Callisto,” he said, “I am quite flattered, but. .
There was the briefest flicker of hurt in her eye, but then she laughed and pulled her hand from his. “Don’t worry, Tin Man,” she said, “I wasn’t serious. You’re too young for me.” She reached up and gave his cheek a mocking pat. “I like my men a little more. .. seasoned. Now, if you don’t mind, I believe there are bluebery pancakes for breakfast.” She winked at Kitty and walked away, her back straight and her chin up, whistling.
Peter turned to Kitty. “All right,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest, “What was that all about?”
Kitty rolled her eyes. “Oh, come on, Peter, I know you tend not to notice these things, but even you can’t be that clueless.” When he didn’t reply, she made a frustrated sound. “Peter. She’s starting to fall for you, you dope.”
“Katya, you are mistaken.” The denial was instant, and Kitty snorted.
“Ha. Right, women who just want to be friends put their hands all over you like Callisto just did.”
“She was doing that to make you jealous.”
Kitty looked away, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear in a nervous gesture. “Yeah, wel 1, it worked,” she muttered.
There was nothing he could say that wouldn’t hurt her, so he ignored the comment. “Kitty, truly, I think you are imagining things. Callisto has no feelings for me beyond friendship, I am certain.”
Kitty flung her hands up in the air. “Okay, I give up. You are that clueless. Just remember I tried to warn you.” She turned and walked away, muttering under her breath and shaking her head.
Colossus stared after her. She was wrong, of course. But a creeping doubt lingered, like the memory of Callisto’s fingers moving on his skin.
And it occurred to him in a blinding flash that the trouble wasn’t that Callisto might be developing a romantic interest in him. The problem was that he could not return them if she was.
After a
futile hour spent trying to distract himself from that realization by changing back and forth from armored form to human, Peter dragged himself back to his quarters. Though his mind was still in turmoil, he was pleased to find that his ability to transform had become easier with repetition, and he could now convert to human form with no pain, and to organic steel with only minor twinges. He dressed w'armly, packed up his sketchbook and pencils, and went out for a walk on the beach, hoping the wind and the sound of the ocean would help him think.
He sat on a rock a little above the high tide mark and opened his sketchbook, but after half an hour, he had drawn nothing.
He set his pencil down on the rock next to the gum eraser. This is pointless, he thought, but didn’t get up to leave. He had loved Szaji, and she died because of him, because he w'as an X-Man and mortal peril was a regular occurrence in his life. He had loved Kitty, and broken her heart trying to ease his own conscience, and keep her from Szaji’s fate. The truth was, love hurt too much when it ended. He didn’t think he could handle that again. Twice was more than enough.
He sighed and picked up his pencil again. He would go away. If Callisto were beginning to have feelings for him, they would soon wither in his absence; Callisto was not one to pine for something she couldn't have. He would talk to Moira, arrange a trip to London or
Edinburgh, or, if she thought he was strong enough, perhaps he could rejoin the rest of the X-Men in .. . wherever they were. It had been several days since they’d had word, and the X-Men tended to move fast.
He ignored the voice in his head that said he was running away.
Two days later he was standing on the dock, his bags packed, waiting for the ferry to take him to the mainland. Moira had not felt that he was quite ready to rejoin the X-Men, so he was bound for Edinburgh by train.
Moira MacTaggart, wrapped to the ears against the wind, had come with Kitty to tell him good-bye.
“Safe journey, safe home,” she said, pulling Peter into a hug.
“Take care, Peter,” Kitty said. “I’ll. . . I’ll miss you.”
“Yeah, Tin Man, take care.” Callisto’s voice came from behind them.
Kitty gave Moira a speaking look. “Come on, Doc, didn’t you have an appointment about now?”
“Yes,” Moira said, lifting an eyebrow. “I believe I did. Come then, you can walk me back. This wind is wicked.”
Kitty stepped up on the air and kissed Peter’s cheek “Good luck,” she whispered in his ear.
There was a moment of awkward silence, and then Callisto said, “So, where you headed?”
“Edinburgh,” Peter replied. He ought at least to have told her he was leaving, he supposed, but he had found that Kitty’s suspicions had made him uncomfortable around her.
“Look, Tin Man,” she said, “about the other day ...” She glanced away. “You’re not leaving because of that, are you? Because it wasn’t serious.” But she didn’t look at him as she said it.
He was saved from having to reply by the arrival of the ferry. Peter gave a silent sigh of relief and dug his sketchbook out of his duffle. He pulled out the last drawing he had done. “Here,” he said, holding it out to Callisto.
It was a sketch of Jessie, skipping along the beach and laughing. Callisto took it and gently, so as not to smudge the lines, ran a fingertip over Jessie’s hair, flying in the wind.
“Thank you,” she said, the words sounding strange, for she seldom used them. “You got her perfectly.”
The ferryman leaned over to tie up his boat. “Hurry up, laddie,” he said gruffly, “I’ve no time for dawdlin’ good-byes.” He began loading Peter’s baggage.
Callisto stuck out her hand. “Good-bye, Tin Man.”
Peter took her hand and shook it. “Good-bye, Comrade Callisto,” he said. And then, prompted by what devil he didn’t know, he added, “Perhaps, when I return, you will let me draw you again.” He let go of her hand and stepped aboard the boat. The ferryman cast off the line and gunned the motor once, then pulled away from the dock.
“Hey! Tin Man! Think fast!” Callisto called, and Peter turned, putting his hands up to catch the object she’d thrown at him. It was a book, The Wizard of Oz-
“Finish it,” she shouted across the widening distance. “When you get back, we can talk about it.”
“Thank you,” he called back. “I will.”
But the Fates had other plans.
It was hours after the midnight broadcast from Dallas, hours after Kitty had broken the dreadful news to Kurt—finally awakened from his coma—and Moira that the X-Men were dead, that she remembered Callisto. She sat straight up in her bed, drying her face with her hands.
Callisto must be told. She had cared about Peter, after all, and, in a strange way, for Ororo and the other X-Men, though they had often been at daggers drawn, and no matter how much Kitty hated the thought of having to offer comfort to someone who had caused her so much pain, she owed it to Peter to do it.
She sighed and rubbed the last traces of tears from her face, blew her nose, and set out for Callisto’s quarters.
At first there was no answer to her knock. She knocked again, louder, and was rewarded with a snarled, “Go away.” Well, at least she’s home, Kitty thought, and knocked again, still louder.
Something crashed against the door—glass, by the sound of it— accompanied by violent swearing. “Can’t you hear?” Callisto shouted, “I told you to bloody go away.”
Kitty stuck her head through the door. “I heard you,” she said calmly, “but there’s something I need to . . .” She stopped.
Callisto already knew. She sat slumped in a chair by the desk, a bottle of Moira’s best single-malt Scotch at her elbow. It was two-thirds empty. There was no glass; that must have been what she threw at the door.
“Well,” she said, her mouth curved in a bitter, mocking smile, “come to bring me bad news? Too late, I already heard.” She turned away from Kitty and reached for the whiskey. When she couldn’t find the glass, she shrugged and took a swig straight from the bottle.
Since Callisto, like Wolverine, had an accelerated healing factor, it took a deliberate and concerted effort for her to achieve inebriation. Kitty phased the rest of the way through the door, worried. Callisto was dangerous cold sober; a drunken Callisto didn’t bear thinking about.
“Is this really a good idea?” Kitty said. She wasn’t quite able to keep the anxiety out of her voice.
Callisto took another pull from the bottle. “Oh, don’t worry, kid,” she said. “It was half-empty when I swiped it.” She set the bottle on the desk and turned to Kitty. Her eye was clear, her voice unslurred. “I’m just having a toast to absent. . . friends.” A haunted look came over her face. “There are so many of them now . .
A knot rose in Kitty’s throat as she thought of Ororo and Wolverine and Rogue and Madeline, of all the Morlocks slain in the Massacre. She tried hard, but failed, not to think of Peter. “Yeah,” she said roughly, “there are.”
For a moment there was silence, and then Callisto pushed out of the chair and took three restless steps across the room.
“How the hell did he get to Dallas?” she said, thumping her fist on her thigh. “How did he know where they were?”
“I don’t know,” Kitty said, her voice pained. “Moira tried to call New York, but nobody answered. And the hotel in Edinburgh said he’d paid through the end of the week.”
Callisto turned and paced back to the desk, where she toyed with the bottle for a moment. But she didn’t pick it up. Instead, she looked at Kitty. “You think it’s my fault,” she said. It was, for Callisto, a statement surprisingly devoid of hostility.
Kitty hesitated. If Peter hadn’t been running from how he thought Callisto had started to feel about him, he wouldn’t have been in Edinburgh, and so might not have wound up in Dallas. She suspected Callisto knew that, and also blamed herself. But she also knew that Peter wouldn’t have blamed the older woman, so she said nothing.
“It’s all rig
ht,” Callisto said, her hands curled into rigid fists at her sides. “It is my fault. I shouldn’t have pushed him the way I did that morning outside his room. I knew he didn’t want anything like that, not after.. .” She trailed off, her glance flickering away from Kitty for a second. She was, Kitty realized with some astonishment, trying to be tactful.
“No,” Kitty said softly, “you shouldn’t have. But whatever took Peter to Dallas might just as well have turned up here. And if he knew the X-Men were in trouble, he’d have gone anyway.”
Callisto raked a hand through her hair. “I know that. Any of us would have.” Her fingers were tight on the back of the chair, the knuckles white and strained, and Kitty wondered if she realized that, for the first time, she had included herself with the X-Men. Perhaps Peter had been right about her, after all.
The sudden crash of the chair on the floor made Kitty jump.
“Dammit!” Callisto swore. “Haven’t we lost enough?” Her mouth was pulled into a tight line and she held her fists in front of her, ready to pummel something.
“We’ve lost too much,” Kitty replied. If it had been anyone else standing in front of her, she’d have offered a comforting touch, but Callisto would only reject it, so she stayed still. “And we’ll lose more before we’re done. It goes with the job.”
“Well, then, the job sucks.”
Kitty couldn’t argue with that, so she changed the subject.
“Callisto,” she said. “Peter ... He cared about you.” It was hard to say, it brought a burning pain underneath her breastbone, but Peter would have wanted Callisto to know it.
Callisto’s hands tightened on the chair back, and the wood groaned. “He wanted to be my friend,” she said, the words sounding as though they were pushed through too narrow a space. “I’d forgotten that it was even possible for someone like me to have friends. But he . ..” She reached forward and opened the desk drawer, took out a paper.
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