******************
Title: Melody
Author: John Duffin
Rating: G
URL: Not to be posted
Disclaimer: The characters belong to Marvel.
Dedication: To any other Irish-Canadian kids who sometimes curse
   their blush-prone complexions and high tempers.
******************


She had sort of face that etched itself onto the inside of your eyelids, he
decided.  Unforgettable, and you were both glad and unhappy about it.
Mainly, the unhappiness came from her being so far out of your reach, and
casting a sort of wet, scratchy blanket over other women that you might
meet.

It wasn't just that she was beautiful.  Polaris was certainly that, and so
was Marvel Girl.  No, it was that she didn't really look like anyone else
he'd ever seen.  An exotic-looking thing, with powerful cheekbones, a long
sweep of neck, athletic legs that were strong rather than coltish.  The
eyes-- oh, her eyes that could look over you or through you or around you--
oh, but when they were looking _at_ you.

Mostly, she looked around him.  More's the pity.  Still, it gave him plenty
of opportunity to look at her without being caught at it, at least by her.

Not that everyone else hadn't noticed.

Sunfire had just given him this _look_.  It was laden down with all the
mighty disdain that a look could carry.  This, he reflected, didn't exactly
single him out, considering how haughty the man was.  Thunderbird, on the
other hand, just raised his eyebrows when no one else was looking.  Kind of
the man, and not what he'd expected, once he thought about it, from someone
so angry.

The Wolverine just seemed to get a kick out of breaking his balls.  Hell,
he was so nervous with the little scrapper criticizing, complaining, and
openly threatening him, that she wouldn't think twice if he ran into a pole
watching her or something.

Little beggar didn't know that he still had friends in high places, o'
course.  Some digging at the Yard had told him a fair bit about the
Wolverine, and if anything, made him wonder what a Canadian biological
weapon was doing at the Xavier School for Gifted Youngsters.  At some
point, he'd have to tell the Professor about what he knew.

There she was, walking through the living room.  His heart started beating
faster and his groin tightened as she favoured him with a smile.  A distant
smile, sure, but did those cat-like slits dilate, just a little?  Did those
perfect lips whisper a 'hello', meant only for him?

Years in law enforcement, and all of his people-reading skills seemed like
stupid toys when he tried to apply them to her.

Resolutely, he trained himself not to twist his neck, not to watch her as
she left the room.  Still, he enjoyed the sounds of her footsteps, and he
strained to hear the soft padding of her feet as she ascended the stairs,
headed for the attic that she had staked out on her first night at the
mansion.  It pleased him that he could resist the temptation to watch.  He
still had the old discipline, no matter what that little Canuck said.

Everyone here seemed to be keeping their cards pretty close to their
chests.  Nobody was quite comfortable yet, and small wonder.  They'd only
just come back from their encounter with the Living Island.  They'd yet to
form a cohesive unit.

For one thing, he hadn't really dwelt on the fact that he'd been 'round the
mansion before.  It didn't seem important, mind, and frankly he wasn't
interested in any kind of politics or pecking order nonsense.  He also
hadn't seen fit to tell anyone about his hearing, which was many times more
acute that a normal man's.

He'd heard, for instance, from a pair of his teammates (never mind who)
that Storm (and here, he could feel an already florid face redden at the
thought of her name) was taken with flying.  Flying outside in the
altogether, that is.

He certainly wasn't about to be testing the veracity of _that_ statement. A
fine appreciator of the female form, that was he, but... well, it wouldn't
exactly seem honest, from the standpoint of a man who might be interested
in pursuing her.  How many peeping toms and such had he seen paraded
through the system in his time?  'Twasn't the behaviour of a man who was
interested in more than his own urges.

The very thought, though.

Well, in any case, he'd caught more than one eye on her, when he could tear
away his own.  The Wolverine was all frank appraisal, though he doubted
that the little man would ever try anything.  Nightcrawler (friendly sort)
was all charm, smooth and Continental.  Perhaps a womanizer, despite his
strange looks.  Would she really be susceptible to such things?  She was so
self- possessed, so mysterious.  But then, he smiled to himself, doesn't
the object of your attraction always seem that way at first?

He felt a pang of guilt, then.  A familiar shaft of pain.  He remembered
the day when he first met Maeve O'Rourke.  Sure, he didn't think much of
her at first.  A typical Belfast girl, shrieking insults at the police
owing to their keeping civil order.  But he'd been wrong about her, as it
came out.  She wasn't truly interested in the Troubles, and she was no part
of the violence.  She was angry because she thought a friend of hers was
being mistreated.  Which he wasn't, as it happened, but she couldn't have
known at the time that he was involved in a bombing.  Later, Maeve'd been
as angry at her friend as she'd been at the police for their rough
treatment.

He'd been away from home when she died, when the Troubles caught up with
her as they never should have done.  He'd been away working for Interpol,
chasing Arkady Gregorovich, alias Grigori Rossovich, all the way across
bloody Europe.  The man was a crazed serial killer, and hadn't his work
been so damned important?

Didn't seem that way, did it, with his precious wife lying in the cold,
hard ground.

Truth to tell, he wasn't sure that he was over it.  He wasn't really, truly
sure that he was ready for romance, or even ready to be attracted to
someone.  But then, romance didn't wait for your bidding, and it didn't run
on your time table.  And truth be told, he found Storm intoxicating.

She was graceful, with a voice that caressed and challenged you.  He wasn't
used to an alto voice on a woman, not really.  His mother had been a
soprano, and so, too, was Maeve.  He had a fine ear for a voice, and if a
woman was tone-deaf, somehow she just didn't interest him.  Storm, he
noticed, had a voice that could ring, or soothe, or even command.  It was
as much her voice as anything.

Right now, if he strained, he could hear her humming to herself in the
attic, over the breathing noises in the next room.  He didn't recognize the
tune, but that wasn't very surprising.  He'd had a devil of a time puzzling
out her accent, and he wasn't sure yet that he'd got it right.

What was she doing up there, in the attic?  She didn't move around very
much, and he hadn't been up there himself.  In her way, she was as reclusive
as the Wolverine.  A lot of her time was spent up there.

Being of a more social mind, he'd spent a fair patch of time with
Nightcrawler, who was as friendly as a man could like.  The Russian lad was
a bit shy, but definitely likely.  They'd toddled off, the three of them,
to a local eatery with Cyclops.  Cyclops was to be the leader of the X-Men
as it turned out.  Excluding the Professor, of course.  That was fine by
him; the boy had a good mind, even if he was still young, and he himself
was more comfortable doing the work.  No doubt, there would be less freedom
than he'd gotten used to as a detective, but Cyclops seemed to be a good
sort of leader.  He was firm, but not imperial, with lots of flexibility
and lots of confidence.

There; her tune changed.  Now, that was a song he recognized.  Point of fact,
it was one of his favourite songs.  He closed his eyes and concentrated on
the melody.

Wait a minute.  Where would she have learned that song?  The words played
in his head as she hummed it:


The soldier boy to the war is gone
In the ranks of death you will find him
His father's sword he hath girded on
And his wild heart slung behind him.


His lips stretched into a smile after the first stanza.  She could only
have heard him humming it.

She was paying attention to him, after all.  Maybe there was something to
be said for maturity and good manners.  Or, at least, as close as he came
to them.

Sean Cassidy, the Banshee, levered himself up from his chair and followed
his courage toward the staircase.



*******

Brobdingnagian Bards- 'The Patriot Game'