Fic: "There is a war", Storm and Emma Frost, written for the femgenficathon.
Title: There is a war
Author: Sionnain
Rating: PG
Fandom: X-Men, Movieverse. Follows the events of X3; contains spoilers.
Characters: Ororo (Storm) and Emma Frost.
Prompt: #78 The sad truth is that most evil is done by people who never make up their minds to be either good or evil.--Hannah Arendt.
Summary: Thanks to recent events, Storm finds herself in charge of the desperately under-staffed Xavier Institute for Gifted Youngsters. It puts her in the uncomfortable position of having lunch with Emma Frost, a woman who never quite managed to choose a side.
AN: Many thanks to artaxastra for the beta! Written for the femgenficathon. I owe ion_bond thanks for helping me flesh out this idea. The title is a Leonard Cohen song, and the quote beneath the cut is from the same.
There is a war
There is a war between the ones who say there is a war, and the ones who say there isn't.
Storm sits at the table alone, having arrived early to gather her thoughts, knowing that Emma would be late. She spends her time staring out at the cloudy sky beyond the windowpane, thinking of how best to proceed. She’s been dreading this lunch date for a week, but it has to be done.
The restaurant is Emma’s choice. Storm would have liked to have met somewhere else, somewhere a bit more private, but she gave in because it really doesn’t matter. She’s learning that being in charge sometimes means a great deal of compromising. She looks down at the crisp white tablecloth and sighs. She wishes Scott was here, or Jean. It’s lonely being the last one of them left, lonelier than she ever would have imagined.
“Ororo. So sorry I’m late.”
Storm looks up at that, taking in Emma’s appearance as she stands sedately by the table, dressed as always in flawless, crisp white. Her diamonds flash as she sits, crossing her legs at the ankle and arranging her napkin in her lap with a flourish. “It’s all right,” Storm says evenly. She’s not fooled. Emma’s late because she wants to be.
Emma smiles, leaning back in the chair. Storm is sure the other woman’s reading her thoughts. Emma Frost does not have Charles Xavier’s moral objections to using her powers on the unaware or the uninformed.
“You’re not unaware or uniformed, though, are you?” Emma asks, perusing the menu. “So I hardly think that’s fair.” Her cool blue gaze drifts over Storm’s features. “You’re looking well, Ororo. Running the mutant school seems to be agreeing with you.”
Storm has a sudden impulse to reach over and smack Emma, and she doesn’t bother to try and hide it. She knows what she looks like; eyes darkened from little sleep, face shadowed by lines of stress and tension. “Right. Emma, let’s not play games. You have to know why I’m here.”
Emma puts her menu away, tapping on the slick cover with one perfectly French-manicured nail. She looks like some rich businessman’s trophy wife, but Storm knows better. “I don’t have to know anything, Ororo.”
The waiter appears before Storm can say anything to that. She orders a salad she won’t like and a glass of water. This place is pricier than she can really afford, and she isn’t sure if her pride could handle Emma buying her lunch so she sticks with something simple.
Emma sips her sparkling water and makes small talk as they wait for their lunch, and the conversation is mostly polite murmurings as they eat. Storm’s salad tastes like dust. Once lunch is finished, Emma orders coffee and some delectable chocolate confection for dessert.
“So, what is it you wanted to see me about?” Emma licks the chocolate off the spoon, her eyes amused.
Storm’s had it with the other woman’s coyness. “You know very well what it is. Our school-we’re barely able to keep the doors open.” Her fingers tighten around the coffee mug. In her head she sees lunch at the mansion-carefully organized chaos peppered by mismatched dishes-and feels guilty for drinking coffee downtown while Bobby and Kitty are left with the kids.
“So it’s money you want from me, is it?” Emma’s laugh is as dark and rich as the chocolate on her spoon. “A charitable donation?”
Outside, there is the distant rumble of thunder. Storm’s nerves are so frazzled she’s not sure whether it’s her doing or actually just the weather. “No, absolutely not. I’ve got Hank working on finding grants, and we have the Professor’s investments to keep us going.”
“And, of course, you don’t believe for a moment those investments are a result of Xavier’s rather…special…talents, do you?” At Storm’s look, Emma laughs again. “Oh, Ororo. How you people never fail to surprise me.”
“I need staff, not money,” Storm snaps, placing her coffee mug on the table and pushing it away. Her hands are shaking, and a few drops of coffee spill on the tablecloth. “That’s why I’m here.”
“You want me to be a teacher?” Emma’s laugh trills out, soft and lyrical and false. “How flattering.”
“Let me just tell you what it’s like at Xavier’s,” Storm says, leaning forward, hands braced on the table. Her voice is dangerous, low like the thunder outside. “After Alcatraz, we get all kinds of kids showing up whose parents think they’re dangerous. That’s bad enough, right, but we’re dealing. We also get runaways, kids whose parents wanted them to take the cure but who don’t want to.”
Emma’s eyes are shrewd, but her face is as impassive as one of the marble statues gracing the courtyard at the mansion.
Storm continues speaking, wondering if any of this matters. Hank told her this was useless, but Storm had to try. “Then, as I’m sure you’re aware of, the cure starts failing. I’ve got parents calling, kids showing up every day with powers they don’t know what to do with.” Storm takes a deep breath. “I’m left with Kitty and Bobby, who are kids themselves. They should be off at college.”
“So let them go,” Emma says with an elegant shrug. “No one says you have to keep the school open, Ororo. These children should learn that the world very rarely offers a place of complete safety.” Her eyes flash with something cruel and hard. “The world is what it is, and the sooner they learn this, the better.”
Storm tries to remember that Emma couldn’t possibly understand what it was like to find Xavier’s as a troubled child, but it’s hard. It’s hard to hear her life’s mission reduced to something so callous.
“It’s not your mission, Ororo. It’s Charles Xavier’s mission, and he’s dead.” Emma’s mouth quirks up. “Or as good as, anyway.”
“I owe that man more than I can ever repay,” Storm says slowly, biting out each word, fingers curling into the linen table cloth. “If it means dedicating my life to his vision-”
“Of an over-crowded school? Of some idealistic notion of pacifism that can’t possibly succeed?” Emma’s voice looses that thread of cultured smoothness, and it’s roughened by disdain. “What did the world give you for fighting at Alcatraz, Ororo? Nothing but sleepless nights and a man in your bed who sees another woman’s face.” Emma lifts her glass to her lips and smiles. “Such an achievement. You must be proud.”
Storm closes her eyes, feeling her powers surge, and struggles for control. Bitch. “And what did you do while we fought, Emma? Hide in your townhouse and drink champagne while watching the news? You never were a fan of our ideology, but I didn’t think you were particularly fond of Magneto’s, either. Or was I wrong? We’ve heard he’s back to his old tricks.”
Emma snorts, the sound inelegant. “Oh, please. As if I’ve nothing better to do than to play soldier to that militant madman.” She waves a hand dismissively. “Any mutant stupid enough to take that cure got what they deserved. I hardly felt the need to go to war over someone else’s stupidity.”
Storm thinks about Rogue; frightened, terrified Rogue, showing back up with a pair of thread-bare gloves and a thousand apologies tumbling from her lips. “We always agreed that the cure should be voluntary. Maybe you’re not as opposed to Xavier’s teachings as you’d like to think.” She winces as she hears herself speak. Even to her it sounds like she’s recruiting for some cult.
“You know, you’re tiresome,” Emma informs her with another sigh. She does indeed look irritated. “You think there are only two sides on which to play, don’t you? There’s more than that, Ororo.” Her voice drops. “Do you want help from me? Perhaps I could arrange…something. I know of an organization that may be beneficial to your little school. It all depends on what you are willing to sacrifice.”
Storm is ridiculously grateful for the detailed files the Professor kept on mutants who were neither friend nor foe. She knows exactly of whom Emma speaks. No one could accuse Storm of not coming to this meeting prepared. Scott Summers as a field leader had taught them all well. “Tell Sebastian Shaw we want nothing to do with him or his little club, Emma.”
Emma’s surprised-Ororo can read it in the sudden veiling of the woman’s arctic gaze-but she recovers admirably. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, of course. I meant that I knew some investors and even a head-hunting firm, if you were interested in finding faculty in less clandestine ways than meeting in restaurants.” Her voice is scathing. “Though by all means, reject my offer. It matters not to me.”
Storm doesn’t doubt that for a minute, and she wonders if maybe Emma is more dangerous than Magneto. At least he has convictions upon which to stand. “I won’t take up any more of your time. I can see that you have no interest in what I have to offer.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that, Ororo,” Emma says playfully, and tilts her head back and laughs. “You’re just not offering the right things, maybe.”
Storm counts to ten, calming herself. “One day you won’t be able to play both sides of the field, Emma. You’ll have to make a choice. And I hope for your sake you make the right one.”
Emma stands up, tossing a handful of bills down on the table without bothering to count. “Mmm. What frightening veiled threats you have! I’ll keep them in mind, darling, promise. Best of luck with recruitment, Storm. With your sales pitch, I think you’re going to need it.” With that, she sweeps out of the restaurant without a backwards glance.
Storm makes her way back to the mansion, wondering what she’ll say to Hank when he calls. He’d been against Storm asking Emma to serve as a faculty member, but Hank is in Washington, not Westchester. The weight of her responsibility nearly makes her keep driving right past Graymalkin Lane, but in the end, she turns into the drive and punches the security code into the gate.
If there’s a part of her that wonders what it would be like to give up, to close the school and live here without the constant worry of training an army for some inevitable battle, then surely that’s only natural. To close the school, however, would only send an army of dangerous, disaffected would-be soldiers into Magneto’s camp. An army he would use ruthlessly, without compunction, as he had before.
In her mind, Storm remembers the stark terror of the fight in the blinding darkness, the feeling of desperation and helplessness as Phoenix burned bright and deadly. She cannot let that happen again. She’s not Emma Frost. She won’t play the sidelines in hopes for a reprieve. If she has to go down, she’ll go down fighting.
They all will. It’s all they can do.
Author: Sionnain
Rating: PG
Fandom: X-Men, Movieverse. Follows the events of X3; contains spoilers.
Characters: Ororo (Storm) and Emma Frost.
Prompt: #78 The sad truth is that most evil is done by people who never make up their minds to be either good or evil.--Hannah Arendt.
Summary: Thanks to recent events, Storm finds herself in charge of the desperately under-staffed Xavier Institute for Gifted Youngsters. It puts her in the uncomfortable position of having lunch with Emma Frost, a woman who never quite managed to choose a side.
AN: Many thanks to artaxastra for the beta! Written for the femgenficathon. I owe ion_bond thanks for helping me flesh out this idea. The title is a Leonard Cohen song, and the quote beneath the cut is from the same.
There is a war
There is a war between the ones who say there is a war, and the ones who say there isn't.
Storm sits at the table alone, having arrived early to gather her thoughts, knowing that Emma would be late. She spends her time staring out at the cloudy sky beyond the windowpane, thinking of how best to proceed. She’s been dreading this lunch date for a week, but it has to be done.
The restaurant is Emma’s choice. Storm would have liked to have met somewhere else, somewhere a bit more private, but she gave in because it really doesn’t matter. She’s learning that being in charge sometimes means a great deal of compromising. She looks down at the crisp white tablecloth and sighs. She wishes Scott was here, or Jean. It’s lonely being the last one of them left, lonelier than she ever would have imagined.
“Ororo. So sorry I’m late.”
Storm looks up at that, taking in Emma’s appearance as she stands sedately by the table, dressed as always in flawless, crisp white. Her diamonds flash as she sits, crossing her legs at the ankle and arranging her napkin in her lap with a flourish. “It’s all right,” Storm says evenly. She’s not fooled. Emma’s late because she wants to be.
Emma smiles, leaning back in the chair. Storm is sure the other woman’s reading her thoughts. Emma Frost does not have Charles Xavier’s moral objections to using her powers on the unaware or the uninformed.
“You’re not unaware or uniformed, though, are you?” Emma asks, perusing the menu. “So I hardly think that’s fair.” Her cool blue gaze drifts over Storm’s features. “You’re looking well, Ororo. Running the mutant school seems to be agreeing with you.”
Storm has a sudden impulse to reach over and smack Emma, and she doesn’t bother to try and hide it. She knows what she looks like; eyes darkened from little sleep, face shadowed by lines of stress and tension. “Right. Emma, let’s not play games. You have to know why I’m here.”
Emma puts her menu away, tapping on the slick cover with one perfectly French-manicured nail. She looks like some rich businessman’s trophy wife, but Storm knows better. “I don’t have to know anything, Ororo.”
The waiter appears before Storm can say anything to that. She orders a salad she won’t like and a glass of water. This place is pricier than she can really afford, and she isn’t sure if her pride could handle Emma buying her lunch so she sticks with something simple.
Emma sips her sparkling water and makes small talk as they wait for their lunch, and the conversation is mostly polite murmurings as they eat. Storm’s salad tastes like dust. Once lunch is finished, Emma orders coffee and some delectable chocolate confection for dessert.
“So, what is it you wanted to see me about?” Emma licks the chocolate off the spoon, her eyes amused.
Storm’s had it with the other woman’s coyness. “You know very well what it is. Our school-we’re barely able to keep the doors open.” Her fingers tighten around the coffee mug. In her head she sees lunch at the mansion-carefully organized chaos peppered by mismatched dishes-and feels guilty for drinking coffee downtown while Bobby and Kitty are left with the kids.
“So it’s money you want from me, is it?” Emma’s laugh is as dark and rich as the chocolate on her spoon. “A charitable donation?”
Outside, there is the distant rumble of thunder. Storm’s nerves are so frazzled she’s not sure whether it’s her doing or actually just the weather. “No, absolutely not. I’ve got Hank working on finding grants, and we have the Professor’s investments to keep us going.”
“And, of course, you don’t believe for a moment those investments are a result of Xavier’s rather…special…talents, do you?” At Storm’s look, Emma laughs again. “Oh, Ororo. How you people never fail to surprise me.”
“I need staff, not money,” Storm snaps, placing her coffee mug on the table and pushing it away. Her hands are shaking, and a few drops of coffee spill on the tablecloth. “That’s why I’m here.”
“You want me to be a teacher?” Emma’s laugh trills out, soft and lyrical and false. “How flattering.”
“Let me just tell you what it’s like at Xavier’s,” Storm says, leaning forward, hands braced on the table. Her voice is dangerous, low like the thunder outside. “After Alcatraz, we get all kinds of kids showing up whose parents think they’re dangerous. That’s bad enough, right, but we’re dealing. We also get runaways, kids whose parents wanted them to take the cure but who don’t want to.”
Emma’s eyes are shrewd, but her face is as impassive as one of the marble statues gracing the courtyard at the mansion.
Storm continues speaking, wondering if any of this matters. Hank told her this was useless, but Storm had to try. “Then, as I’m sure you’re aware of, the cure starts failing. I’ve got parents calling, kids showing up every day with powers they don’t know what to do with.” Storm takes a deep breath. “I’m left with Kitty and Bobby, who are kids themselves. They should be off at college.”
“So let them go,” Emma says with an elegant shrug. “No one says you have to keep the school open, Ororo. These children should learn that the world very rarely offers a place of complete safety.” Her eyes flash with something cruel and hard. “The world is what it is, and the sooner they learn this, the better.”
Storm tries to remember that Emma couldn’t possibly understand what it was like to find Xavier’s as a troubled child, but it’s hard. It’s hard to hear her life’s mission reduced to something so callous.
“It’s not your mission, Ororo. It’s Charles Xavier’s mission, and he’s dead.” Emma’s mouth quirks up. “Or as good as, anyway.”
“I owe that man more than I can ever repay,” Storm says slowly, biting out each word, fingers curling into the linen table cloth. “If it means dedicating my life to his vision-”
“Of an over-crowded school? Of some idealistic notion of pacifism that can’t possibly succeed?” Emma’s voice looses that thread of cultured smoothness, and it’s roughened by disdain. “What did the world give you for fighting at Alcatraz, Ororo? Nothing but sleepless nights and a man in your bed who sees another woman’s face.” Emma lifts her glass to her lips and smiles. “Such an achievement. You must be proud.”
Storm closes her eyes, feeling her powers surge, and struggles for control. Bitch. “And what did you do while we fought, Emma? Hide in your townhouse and drink champagne while watching the news? You never were a fan of our ideology, but I didn’t think you were particularly fond of Magneto’s, either. Or was I wrong? We’ve heard he’s back to his old tricks.”
Emma snorts, the sound inelegant. “Oh, please. As if I’ve nothing better to do than to play soldier to that militant madman.” She waves a hand dismissively. “Any mutant stupid enough to take that cure got what they deserved. I hardly felt the need to go to war over someone else’s stupidity.”
Storm thinks about Rogue; frightened, terrified Rogue, showing back up with a pair of thread-bare gloves and a thousand apologies tumbling from her lips. “We always agreed that the cure should be voluntary. Maybe you’re not as opposed to Xavier’s teachings as you’d like to think.” She winces as she hears herself speak. Even to her it sounds like she’s recruiting for some cult.
“You know, you’re tiresome,” Emma informs her with another sigh. She does indeed look irritated. “You think there are only two sides on which to play, don’t you? There’s more than that, Ororo.” Her voice drops. “Do you want help from me? Perhaps I could arrange…something. I know of an organization that may be beneficial to your little school. It all depends on what you are willing to sacrifice.”
Storm is ridiculously grateful for the detailed files the Professor kept on mutants who were neither friend nor foe. She knows exactly of whom Emma speaks. No one could accuse Storm of not coming to this meeting prepared. Scott Summers as a field leader had taught them all well. “Tell Sebastian Shaw we want nothing to do with him or his little club, Emma.”
Emma’s surprised-Ororo can read it in the sudden veiling of the woman’s arctic gaze-but she recovers admirably. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, of course. I meant that I knew some investors and even a head-hunting firm, if you were interested in finding faculty in less clandestine ways than meeting in restaurants.” Her voice is scathing. “Though by all means, reject my offer. It matters not to me.”
Storm doesn’t doubt that for a minute, and she wonders if maybe Emma is more dangerous than Magneto. At least he has convictions upon which to stand. “I won’t take up any more of your time. I can see that you have no interest in what I have to offer.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that, Ororo,” Emma says playfully, and tilts her head back and laughs. “You’re just not offering the right things, maybe.”
Storm counts to ten, calming herself. “One day you won’t be able to play both sides of the field, Emma. You’ll have to make a choice. And I hope for your sake you make the right one.”
Emma stands up, tossing a handful of bills down on the table without bothering to count. “Mmm. What frightening veiled threats you have! I’ll keep them in mind, darling, promise. Best of luck with recruitment, Storm. With your sales pitch, I think you’re going to need it.” With that, she sweeps out of the restaurant without a backwards glance.
Storm makes her way back to the mansion, wondering what she’ll say to Hank when he calls. He’d been against Storm asking Emma to serve as a faculty member, but Hank is in Washington, not Westchester. The weight of her responsibility nearly makes her keep driving right past Graymalkin Lane, but in the end, she turns into the drive and punches the security code into the gate.
If there’s a part of her that wonders what it would be like to give up, to close the school and live here without the constant worry of training an army for some inevitable battle, then surely that’s only natural. To close the school, however, would only send an army of dangerous, disaffected would-be soldiers into Magneto’s camp. An army he would use ruthlessly, without compunction, as he had before.
In her mind, Storm remembers the stark terror of the fight in the blinding darkness, the feeling of desperation and helplessness as Phoenix burned bright and deadly. She cannot let that happen again. She’s not Emma Frost. She won’t play the sidelines in hopes for a reprieve. If she has to go down, she’ll go down fighting.
They all will. It’s all they can do.