was it all too much or just not enough; [au & rw]
News of the missing people had spread through the school like the proverbial wildfire, a cliché term but an applicable one all the same. Disappearances were rarely positive in any instance but at Xavier's they had a whole other meaning, there was a different sort of dread attached to that kind of thing at the School for the Gifted. Some people were doing what they could to try and locate the individuals who had vanished without a trace, and Rahne was one of those; his mutation allowed for a degree of usefulness in cases such as this, when people up and disappeared, and so long as there were trails to follow, he could do his part. But that was the problem. What trails he could find of the vanished few simply up and ended, there was nothing to follow after a certain point, leaving him baffled and frustrated. Rahne liked to help, didn't like to feel useless, wanted to pull his weight and do everything he could to solve the mystery; it was a big part of why he had joined the X-Men, why he had gone through all that training and stepped into battle with the others time after time, regardless of what happened to them in the field.

The weather was only just starting to turn in Westchester, the leaves were beginning to show that edge of fall, but it would be a while before they fell from the branches or the chill really started to form in the air. It wouldn't make much of a difference even then, Rahne wouldn't really notice it, certainly not when he was in wolf form when his tolerance for that chill heightened, thanks in part to his thick pelt. Those thoughts were lazily buzzing through the back of his brain as he loped out of the trees after taking it upon himself to scout to the very edges of the grounds for signs of the missing persons; the search had been fruitless, his tail was flicking back and forth, dissatisfied, little more than a twitch of irritation, not at any of the people who had vanished but at himself. Rahne hated dead ends.

His ears pitched forward from their disheartened droop when he heard tyres on the gravel driveway. His lope picked up in speed, quickening to a trot that brought him around the side of the school and to the front. A familiar head of a red hair was rising from the driver's side of the car and immediately Rahne transformed, mid-stride, smoothly stepping from one form to the other with a smile beginning to form on his face. When Moira turned to watch his approach, there was a grimness to the crease in her brow that gave him reason to pause, his stride faltering, smile fading. "Rahne." That was all she said at first, before she wet her lips and fussed her hands together, fingers briefly knotting as they did when she was nervous.

"Why didn't you tell me you were coming? I would have picked you up at the airport," Rahne ventured, watching her face. She glanced back at the car. The metamorph's gaze followed. The windows to the vehicle were tinted, but there was someone else in there. He could smell them, even if he couldn't see them. It was Rahne's turn to frown, eyes narrowing just a fraction as that wolf's capacity for retaining unique scents activated, whispering suspicions through his mind. "What's going on?"

"Rahne," Moira said again, taking a deep breath, turning her eyes to his, shaking her head just enough to tell her adoptive son that something wasn't right. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong. Dread balled in his stomach, ice cold and heavy like lead, expanding outward and making him feel uncomfortable, rising to his chest to press against his lungs and trip his heart into a swifter rhythm. "There's something you should know. I thought it best to tell you in person. Maybe we should go inside." She made a gesture towards the car, encompassing whoever was still seated inside.

"No, tell me what's wrong." The unspoken 'please' hovered between them, thickening the air. Rahne wanted to step closer, wanted to reassure himself with her presence, but couldn't move his feet. That scent drifting out from the motionless vehicle had frozen him in place, anchored his feet to the spot. "Tell me what's going on."

"Rahne--" Moira stopped when that unseen someone moved inside the car. Her features paled, one hand lifted, trembling subtly, to tuck her hair back behind her ear. When she looked towards Rahne once again, she looked almost regretful, apologetic. Guilty?

He wasn't looking at her, not after the other person first started to show from the passenger side of the car, their back to him at first. It didn't matter. It was a frame that Rahne would know anywhere, one he had memorised in his youth, one that sometimes flashed through dreams when they were on the verge of tipping into nightmares, rare though they were for him nowadays. It had been a long time since the rocky, traumatic days of his childhood and Rahne had gotten over all that, at least as much as he thought was possible. He had come a long way, put it all behind him, moved on. He had made a life for himself here at Xavier's, pushed past all those fears and insecurities to make something of himself. Standing there on the driveway outside the mansion he had come to call home, he felt it all swelling back to the surface, bubbling up from the shadowed corners of his mind where all those memories had been tucked so neatly away. When the man turned around, Rahne realised, horribly, that he couldn't feel his legs.

Reverend Craig had always seemed like a veritable giant of a man; he had towered over Rahne, resentful grimace on those harsh features of his, cool, scrutinising eyes staring down from on high. Now he didn't seem so large, so tall and imposing, but it wasn't his physical appearance that had terrified Rahne as a child, sent him bolting to his little room in the church to cower behind the bed where he hoped no one would find him. It was the man himself, the beliefs and the booming voice that spouted sermons and damnation, it was the cold criticism and the cruel abuse that he had hurled at the boy he had taken it upon himself to raise. Time after time he had belittled Rahne, made him think so little of himself, told him he would never amount to anything, that he would end up "just like his poor, wretched mother". Rahne had never known what that meant, it had never been explained; he had never known his mother, she had died giving birth to him and no one had ever told him so much as her name. It was just the way Craig had said those things, they had sounded so awful, so scathing. Rahne had ended up a meek, skittish boy, never wanting to draw attention to himself, fearing everything. And then his mutation had surfaced; Craig's raging temper had triggered Rahne's first transformation from boy to wolf, tail tucked between his legs, body balled up as though fearing a strike, all but whining in terror. Craig had started screaming, bellowing and waving his arms, surging towards the wolf standing in the middle of his church and the wolf had run; with the mob at his tail, the wolf had run, run until his legs ached and his lungs burned, frightened of the mob's anger and resentment, of the fire they brandished with the intent to burn him, to cleanse him of the devil. Rahne had run until he had fallen off the sudden drop, in pain and completely consumed by exhaustion and terror. Moira had saved him. If it hadn't been for Moira and the land she owned, Craig and those loyal followers of his would have killed Rahne that day.

Now here he was, turning and fastening a single button on his jacket as though he were readying himself to give one of his infamous sermons on sin and Hell, those cool eyes meeting Rahne's with a rock steady confidence, the same unwavering self-assuredness from so long ago. He looked so calm, so controlled. Rahne felt rage and hatred surge through him. Craig's expression shifted just a fraction, a touch of a frown oddly mixed with the slightest rise of one brow. Rahne knew his eyes had shifted, no longer green but feral amber.

"Rahne," Moira said again, voice thin and shaky, prompting her to clear her throat in a hasty attempt to steady and strengthen it. "We really should go inside, maybe to your room? It's import--"

"What is he doing here?" Rahne's own voice was strained, run through faintly but ominously with the beginnings of a growl. Moira's face paled once again, practically white now. "Why is he here?" he asked again, unable to take his eyes from Craig. It was a challenge, even if the older man didn't know it. Craig might have been in charge at that miserable little church where he preached and ranted week after week, poisoning and warping the minds of the masses, but this was Rahne's territory. Craig had no power here.

"Rahne, please--"

"No."

Moira lifted a hand to her face, flustered, glancing across the roof of their rental car to Craig, who still stood there with the same infuriating calm composure, staring back at Rahne. "I really think--"

"It's all right, Dr. MacTaggert. You said he'd react this way. I didn't expect anything less." Hearing Craig's voice, still so arrogant and maddeningly knowing drove a growl out of Rahne, guttural, a sound that had no business coming from a human throat. "Well." That was Craig's only reaction to the snarl; he stepped around the back of the car then, and Rahne wished he were in wolf form at that moment, so the man could see the raised hackles and the dipped head, the lifted jowls and tensed muscles. An angry wolf would inspire hesitation in most living things, but all Craig saw was a scowling young man and he was not intimidated. That only made Rahne's anger worse. "If Rahne doesn't want to go inside, that's fine. We'll just talk out here. I've no problem with that."

"I don't want to hear it," Rahne rumbled, voice low, deeper than it should have been. "Whatever you've come here to say, I don't want to hear it." He didn't even hear the accent thickening in his own voice, encouraged by those of Moira and Reverend Craig.

"Oh, I think you'll want to hear this, boy."

"Don't." It was getting hard to breathe. "Don't you call me that."

Craig's shoulders shrugged subtly and then he moved on, unfazed. "Dr. MacTaggert thinks I shouldn't tell you this, and maybe she's right, maybe I shouldn't. God knows I've never quite believed it myself, but, well…" Something came over those weathered features of his. Disgust. Rahne recognised it easily.

The silence stretched. "What?" Rahne glanced to Moira then, inadvertently granting Craig the victory. "But what?"

"Rahne…" Moira stepped towards him and Rahne allowed her to do so; it wasn't the woman who provoked him, but the man she had -- for some unfathomable reason -- brought with her. "Please believe me when I say I had the best intentions in keeping this from you. I didn't want to hurt you." Craig made a noise, rolled his eyes. Rahne growled quietly. To head them off before anything could happen, Moira pressed on quickly, "I couldn't tell you when you were just a boy, it would have been too much. Since then I've just never found the right time, but now--" Her eyes closed, she cursed under her breath, startling Rahne. Moira never swore. "Oh, God, Rahne, I'm so sorry. I should have told you before now."

"Told me what?" Fear, pure and rolling, was spreading from his stomach up to his chest, eating away at him. Craig's presence, Moira's apologies, the confusion in the conversation; Rahne almost didn't want her to clarify, dreaded what might be coming, but if she didn't tell him then it would drive him mad.

"I brought Reverend Craig here with me today because--" Moira looked at the man. He said nothing. "Because h--he's your father, Rahne."

The bottom of Rahne's world dropped out. Everything felt numb. The amber hue bled instantly from his eyes. He couldn't breathe, think, move.

"Rahne, I know you don't want to believe it, but he is your father. I'm sorry I never told you."

"No." It was clipped, abrupt, breathless. "No, it's a lie. He forced you to say that--" His head had started shaking. "He made you do this. I don't know why, I don't understand, it--" His throat was dry, he couldn't focus or string anything resembling a thought together. "It's not true."

"Rahne, hon, think about it. Why would he raise you if you weren't his s--"

"No!" It sounded so loud all of a sudden, like the world around them was noiseless and his shout was the only thing to pierce that blanket of silence, harsh and unexpected. "No, it is not true. He raised me because--" His eyes flickered to Craig. "He did it because--"

"Why did I do it?" Craig queried, in that same expectant tone from way back when, just waiting for the answer, the faintest hint of impatience edging his voice.

"I don't know why you did it," Rahne snapped. "But you are not my father. There's no way you could be my father."

"Be quiet and think about it. Stop denying it and use your brain," Craig retorted sharply, scolding. Rahne couldn't help but stumble then, at least figuratively, protests freezing up in his throat, eyes locked on the older man, seeing things he didn't want to see. Familiarities. Resemblances. He could only stand and listen, horrified, as Craig went on. "If you weren't my son then I wouldn't have taken you in as a ward of the church. I wouldn't have schooled you. I wouldn't have kept a roof over your head, fed you, clothed you--"

"Tried to kill me?" Rahne's voice was quiet, almost hollow, but there was a cold edge to it, accusatory, hateful.

For the longest time, the Reverend said nothing, simply stared back at Rahne, his face giving nothing away. "Exactly."

It was true. Something about the way the man said that, so straightforward and finalistic, made Rahne believe it. Reverend Craig, the man who had made his life -- as horrifically ironic as it was -- a living hell, was his father. For years Rahne had dreaded that truth coming to light, suspected it in the back of his mind with an icy feeling of dismay each time it surfaced for even a moment, and now he knew. Now he knew that the same man who had wanted to burn him to death was the very same man who had helped bring him into this world. The fear and the anxiety were gone, only a cold, detached kind of loathing left in its wake.

"You sick, spiteful son of a bitch," he ground out, not even acknowledging Moira as she turned away, hand to her face, other arm hugged around herself. Rahne stepped forward, into Craig's -- his father's -- personal space. "After everything you did to me, I should kill you where you stand, but I'm not going to give you the satisfaction. You know why? Because as much as I hate you -- and by god, do I hate you -- I also feel sorry for you. I pity you. You may be my father, you may have made me feel utterly worthless, it might have taken me years to recover from everything you said and did to me, but now that I know who you are, exactly what you are to me…" The wolf glowed through his eyes again and Rahne took more satisfaction than he knew he ought to from Craig's small step back. "You're not even worth the effort, you miserable, pathetic excuse for a man."

Rahne saw the tension ripple through Craig's chest and shoulders, the flicker of anger in his eyes. "I dare you," he growled, low and threatening. "I dare you to try and hit me. Go ahead. I'll show you what your son can really do. What I'm really capable of."

Craig didn't move.

Coward. That was all he was. A cowardly, raging bully with nothing to live for. Rahne stared him down, waited until those eyes flickered away to where Moira stood off to the side and then he turned away. Turned and walked away. Even with his parting words, the snarls and judgements, Rahne felt something unfamiliar inside of him, a new kind of chill that he didn't understand, not right away. It wasn't relief or satisfaction, nor was it confidence. Deep down, underneath the boldness and predatory steadiness he had just displayed in the face of a crippling revelation years in the making, Rahne hated where he had come from, was angry and more than anything, upset about his roots. There had always been a part of him hoping for something good to come out of his family. Apparently not. With that realisation brewing in him, Rahne closed his eyes and stepped around the corner and back towards the woods.

When his eyes opened, it wasn't to the thick tree line that bordered the school but to a familiar ceiling. The shock of waking kicked in then and Rahne gasped thickly, jolted away from the soft surface beneath him. The world dropped off, but it was only a few feet to the ground, and reflexes saved him a painful landing on his stomach or his side, twisting him almost preternaturally in the small space between the side of the bed and the floor. He landed in a tight crouch, remained there, poised, for a second, and then buckled fully to the floor, uncoordinated limbs that felt like they hadn't been used in weeks failing him. His back met the floor with a light yet still undignified thud and once again Rahne was left staring up at the ceiling. His ceiling. His bedroom ceiling. Something wasn't right.

Awkwardly, with a disturbing amount of difficulty, Rahne got himself rolled over and onto his knees, muscles and limbs protesting and complaining all the way. One hand clumsily supported him as he gripped the edge of the mattress and pulled himself up high enough to look onto the bed. "Angel." Rahne tried to pull himself up onto the bed again, but his body wouldn't obey him, it wasn't strong enough, he couldn't get his legs under him or enough power into his arms to heave himself up high enough to check on her, but from where he knelt uncomfortably, he could see the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest that told him, thankfully, she was breathing. "Angel," he tried again, and several times after that until he realised something was keeping her from responding, from waking up. Rahne needed to wait for whatever was wrong with his body to pass, and then he needed to find help.


[ narrative; closed ]