A look of hurt and offense crossed Peggy's face. She clenched her hands and looked away from Tony. Ashamed of himself, he wiped the bridge of his nose and snorted, slightly embarrassed. He remembered a friendlier time, enhanced by photos of her with her father, and then with him, looking much cleaner back then.
"I just want you to know that I actually still think you're a good person, Carter. It's the people who come after you that I don't trust, nor the people above you," he said before opening the door.
"Stark, are you ready to go to war?" Peggy asked, causing Tony to stop again and look at her. "You saw some action, you were held captive for a few months, you're not a soldier, Stark."
"You're absolutely right. I'm not a soldier, I'm an army," he retorted, before slamming the door behind him.
Peggy threw the newspaper back in and rummaged through her drawers. She pulled out a book full of phone numbers. In the same drawer was an old rotary phone. While she dialed the numbers, she waited patiently.
"I'm from Loeb, what can we do for you?" asked a voice on the other end.
"I'd like to reserve a dinner for three, please. Will Ditko and Busiek be playing ?" Peggy asked.
"That depends on when you want to book," the voice said.
"Tonight, I'm sorry for the short notice."
"Okay, I must inform you that payment is due in advance."
"Okay, I'm a member," Peggy said, taking a set of coins out of the same drawer.
She wasn't sure what to pack, or if what she had packed was enough. Her parents assured her she would always have a place to stay there. But she knew what they were thinking: how difficult it would be for her, how they couldn't understand her, but the man with the mechanical legs could. She folded another of her favorite green shirts and packed it in her suitcase. The redhead, a beauty to most, squinted and gestured for the closet drawers to open. They opened following the movement of her fingers. She moved her fingertips as if trying to grasp something, but everything she had piled in the closet suddenly fell out.
"Is everything okay, Jean?" her mother asked as she came up the stairs.
It was a small house, with thin walls, so she couldn't do anything without her mother or father hearing her. Her mother was the only one there; her father, John, was on call at his office, still practicing his profession as a doctor. He always believed in helping others, even giving up sick leave to continue seeing patients, even if it meant leaving his daughter alone. Jean's mother wasn't a doctor, and she noticed the woman struggling to find the right words. She followed the woman's gaze to the pills on her desk.
"He wanted me to find them," the woman thought, and she was right.
Small tears began to roll down Jean's eyes.
"They stop the pain," Jean said.
"The teacher said the pain is literally in your mind, how many have you taken?" his mother asked.
"Just enough to make me sleepy. I can't hear people across the street anymore, so..."
"So no, Jean, this is not how you gain control, this is how you lose control."
"The voice of experience," Jean replied, and instantly regretted it.
Her mother and father had similar eyes, and a very effective way of using them to make her feel bad. Jean's mother had a problem before Jean was born, and meeting her father changed everything. Jean sensed how her mother wanted her to find someone to save her.
"Don't hold your breath," he said, speaking to her as if her thoughts weren't private.
"That's another reason you're going, Jean. Control should be more than just being able to control it; it should also be about knowing how and when to use it," the woman explained.
He sat his daughter on the edge of the bed and held her hand, just like he used to do when Jean was little.
Now I know things are difficult, especially after what happened to...
"Mom, please don't give me that nonsense now," Jean snapped.
Her mother looked at her again. She shook her head and stood up, while Jean continued packing.
"You're reading my mind right now, Jean, you're right, anyway, you know the commonplaces now," he thought.
When they finished, Jean hugged her mother and walked toward the car with her suitcases.
'There goes the gray girl.'
'Who are those people?'
"They're finally getting their help."
She could hear people watching her, but as she got into the car, the voices ceased. Sitting next to her was the professor her mother had been talking about. He was a tall, bald man, wearing a cheap, elegant suit, and in front of him was a pair of crutches.
"I thought you could use a little quiet for a while," he said, tapping his head with a finger.
His warm smile reassured her, and for a moment Jean wondered if it was because the man was in over his head. Then she realized he didn't care. The man looked at the woman behind the wheel; she was a dark-haired woman with black marks around her eyes.
"Let's go home, Tessa," he said.
"As you say, professor," the woman said before starting to drive.
"I know it's not where you grew up, Jean, but I hope one day you can see that school can be as much a home for you as the one you left."
She nodded, though she still wasn't convinced.
"There you'll meet people like us," Charles's voice echoed in her head.
Jean looked at Charles, the man was still smiling.
"You're not the only one with gifts, Jean ," he spoke again without moving his mouth.
Slowly a smile spread across her face, Jean Grey knew she was no longer alone.
.
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