He watched her too much. He knew that for certain, knew that he should stay away. No good could come of this. And yet day after day, hard as he tried to resist, he found himself inexorably straying in her direction. He would move stealthily through the woods, telling himself that he would just get close enough to catch her scent. Just a little of that sunshine-and-rain sweetness, and he’d be able leave. And then once he scented her, he had to get just a little closer, so he could see her. Just a glimpse.
By the time the days had turned into weeks he couldn’t even pretend any more. This was all he wanted, just to be near her. To see her, and smell her. To watch her as she painted, the colors coming to vivid life through the deft and sure movements of her hand. To see the way her body moved, graceful and strong, in flurries of punches and kicks that made the heavy bag sway on its mooring. To listen to her quiet breathing as she read, or cooked, or slept. Sometimes she sang to herself in a low voice, thick and sweet like honey. At those times he couldn’t help himself from creeping even dangerously closer, letting her voice run over him like a caress, the low sweet tones washing over him until he thought he would happily drown in them.
He remembered -- as he often did -- that first day, watching her try to chop the wood. How fierce she had been, like a small spitting cat, defiant and indomitable. He put a hand to his face, feeling the unaccustomed movement of the muscles there. He was smiling. He couldn’t remember ever doing that, before her.
It was an addiction, this compulsive need to be near to her. He woke up in the morning, thinking of when he would see her next, his heart speeding at the very idea of it. And then the moments when he was near her, watching. Something about her soothed him in a way he had never felt before, sending warmth unfurling through his chest. When he crawled into his lonely nest of blankets at night, his mind replayed images from the day. The way her brow had furrowed as she tried to get something right on her painting, a spot of blue paint carelessly smudged across her temple. The graceful arch of her body as she had kicked and punched the heavy bag. The flush of pink that had tinted her cheekbones when she emerged soft and warm from her bath.
He knew it was wrong to watch her, wrong to even think about her, but his mind whispered arguments that he could not find the strength to refute. This is enough, just to see her, he told himself. To be near her. Why should he deny himself a little bit of brightness in his cold hard life? What harm is it to her? She will never know.
________________
Marie started as a leaf brushed her shoulder. She put down her paintbrush, wiping her hands on the faded old shirt she wore as a smock, and looked up at the rustling trees. The golds and oranges were outweighing the greens now, and soon the leaves would start to fall in earnest.
She felt as if she had settled in here. Her heart no longer lurched when she stepped outside. She wore shorts and sleeveless shirts with hardly a second thought now. Growing comfortable in my own skin. She thought the hackneyed phrase had never been quite as appropriate. To her knowledge her mutation had remained active, but there were times now -- whole hours at a stretch -- when it did not even cross her mind. At times she even felt that there was a glimmer of difference...a hint of a change that might just be, if not quite within her grasp, then moving ever closer...
But now summer was drawing to a close, and autumn would be upon her. How would she handle the change from long, lazy sunshine-filled days to a snowbound, frosty winter? Would the darkness and cold start to weigh on her, turning her peaceful solitude to loneliness and isolation?
Well, she would make the most of these last warm days while she could. On an earlier excursion she had found a small lake nearby. Maybe she would go swimming tomorrow. She started to pack up her painting supplies, singing softly under her breath.
“Summertime...and the livin’ is easy...fish are jumpin’...and the cotton is high....oh, your daddy’s rich...and your momma’s good lookin’...so hush little baby...don’t you -- holy hell!”
She jumped, the palette falling from her hands. A man was standing amongst the trees, just... watching her.
She blinked, at first thinking that she must be imagining things. He was so still, almost invisible among the tree trunks. Then the frozen shock gave way to a hot rush of anger. No one was supposed to be here. No one. Xavier owned the land for miles around.
“Hey!” she called out angrily, taking a few steps forward.
She saw his eyes widen as he stumbled a step backwards. For some reason, his startled response made her anger spike even higher.
“Hey, you!” she yelled. And then he was... just gone, melting away into the forest as if he had never been there.
She ran to the place where she had seen him, looking around in all directions. “Dammit,” she muttered. Nothing was there but the tall trees and the sigh of the wind, a few leaves gently falling to brush against her shoulders.
________
Marie sat on the couch in the cabin’s living room, trying to calm her thumping heart and assess the situation rationally.
Who could this man be? He didn’t look like a random hiker who had wandered off course -- even in the brief glimpse she had caught of him she could tell that he didn’t have gear of any sort. And the way he had reacted to being spotted. He had looked almost...guilty.
She thought again of the axe. She had added a little note on her shopping list to Samuel, the caretaker, asking if he had come by the cabin and his note in return had assured her that he had not. Had this man been responsible? And if so, had he been around for that long -- almost a month?
“Fuckin’ creeper,” she muttered. She thought about him maybe watching her...even seeing that pathetic display of chopping wood she had put on the first day, and her cheeks burned with anger and humiliation. She forced herself to take a deep breath, trying to take emotion out of the situation.
What did she know? If he had really been around that long, he would have had plenty of opportunities to harm her, if that was what he had wanted. She thought of his reaction when she had confronted him. He had seemed more startled even than she was. She tried to recall more about him, but her only clear impression was of his eyes. They had been intensely focused on her, the amber-hazel gaze almost seeming to glow in her recollection. Otherwise she had a vague impression of a bearded face and somewhat unruly hair. A flannel shirt and jeans, but no gear that she had seen. And no weapon.
Here were her options. She could use the satellite phone and call Xavier. But what if he were overly cautious -- maybe even recommending that she call off this experiment and come back to the mansion, or that the team come out to investigate? She was making progress, she was sure of it. She didn’t want to call this off yet.
So that left it to her. She looked at the object she had placed on the coffee table, a sterling silver serving spoon she had dug out from one of the cabinets. She took a deep breath, and closed her eyes.
Magneto. She opened her eyes and the spoon lifted from the table. She made it hover for a moment, and then with a snap of her fingers fractured it into a thousand tiny pieces of metal. Drawing her fingers together again, she reformed the spoon perfectly. She let it clatter back onto the table.
Bobby. This trace was weaker. She had only absorbed Bobby a few times while they dated, little accidents and brushes until that final time -- lingering too long over a kiss -- when she had picked up enough of his thoughts to realize that Kitty was the one he actually wanted. Nonetheless, she touched her index finger to the spoon and it iced over instantly. She breathed out a huff of surprise, her breath showing frosty cold even in the warm summer air.
Jubilee. Another weak trace, but enough to make a small paff, charging the spoon and sending it a few inches across the table.
Jean. Marie hesitated. Jean was the last of the mutants she had absorbed, and that day may have been the worst day of her life since had fallen, burned and shredded, from Magneto’s machine into the Upper New York Bay. God forgive her for ever thinking that Jean had it easy, with her perfect appearance and faultless elegance. Once Marie knew what it was like to have uncontrolled telepathy -- the thoughts of everyone within a fifteen mile radius shoved forcibly into her head -- she never envied Jean again.
Xavier had been right, her mental barriers were strengthening all the time. This time alone at the cabin seemed to have solidified her sense of self, making it easier than ever to selectively access the powers of the personalities in her head and then bottle them up again. Jean’s talent would definitely be the most useful here. She could potentially know what this man was thinking -- who he was, where he was, if he were a threat to her...
And yet somehow, that was the line she couldn’t cross. Not yet, at least. Maybe it was because of how hard Marie had to fight to achieve privacy in her own mind, ever since the moment her mutation first manifested and Cody had taken up a permanent residence in her head. As angry and disquieted as the man’s unexpected appearance had made her, she could not feel justified in invading his thoughts. Not quite yet.
In the meantime, she was on her guard now. She would watch, and wait, and if the man had bad intentions...she was an X-Man, dammit, and her defenses were considerable. After a moment of thought she closed her eyes and summoned up Magneto again, reworking the silver spoon into an intricately fashioned cuff bracelet, wrapping it around her wrist. She would always have metal on her from now on, and who needs a gun when you can fire a metal missile directly with the power of your mind? If this man did indeed intend to harm her...well, he didn’t know who he was dealing with.
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