Copper Oxide
Summary: Storm, a certain copper statue, and some slashyness.
Rating: Oh, PG-13. If that.
Distribution: Kate's archive, otherwise just ask
Disclaimer: Not mine, but I'm going to borrow them from Marvel for a bit.
They might be a little sullied when I return them, however I will remain as
poor.
Notes: A strange little fic that came to me when I was watching the movie
for the first time, although I had to go back and watch it again so I'd get
the story right. I like to think I'm the first person in the world to slash
the Statue of Liberty. There's probably a law against that, but hell, I
don't live in the US, so I don't care. Dedicated to the lovely Ms. Kate
Bolin. I do it for her love...
Notes 2: This is a rewrite of a small piece of the film, starting from the
jet landing next to the Statue. Storm's POV.
Notes 3: Special thanks to the lovely Isabeau for her impromptu betaing.
"This is not a novel to be tossed aside lightly. It should be thrown with
great force." - Dorothy Parker
We all jerked forward as the jet landed roughly onto the water. Scott -- sorry, Cyclops -- turned around and gave us a goofy smile. "Sorry."
Logan growled at him, and Jean sighed quietly, probably tiring of the macho posturing of those two. I said nothing, and unbuckled my seatbelt.
"I need to secure this thing," Scott said, as he turned to face us. "Jean, you get Wolf-boy and Storm across to the island, then wait for me. Logan, checkout the grounds, Storm, check out the entrance hall of the Statue. Be careful; Magneto and his thugs are about."
"Yes, sir!" Logan barked sarcastically. I gave the stockier man a smile, and opened the top hatch. Suddenly I began to float, my white hair drifting about my face, and the tails of my coat billowing, up through the hatch and across the short stretch of water to the patch of grass in front of Lady Liberty herself. A few moments later I was joined by Logan, similarly carried to the shore by Jean's telekinesis.
He gave me a quick nod, and then, nostrils flaring, loped off into dark to hunt out the other mutants. I strode up towards the doors that led to the entrance hall of the Statue, listening for any movement. All I could hear was the creaking of my leather catsuit. Which was also riding up the crack of my ass. Sure, I looked good in those damn pants but they aren't comfortable.
I forgot about my clothes when I reached the main doors. The left door was ajar, and light spilled out into the night from the room behind it. I felt my body tense in apprehension, and slowly pushed it open. I paused only a moment, then stepped inside.
There was the faint whirr of machinery in the distance; the elevators I supposed. Aside from that the room was quiet, and deserted apart from various exhibits to entertain the tourists that visited the island. Dominating them all was a scale model of the Statue herself, pale green eyes staring back at my own chocolate coloured irises.
I teach history at the Professor's school, and I'd always loved to read about the Statue. It is a symbol of America more potent than any other. When people across the world think of America they think of that statue, her outstretched arm bearing a golden torch. The whole structure was once shiny copper, bronze and metallic. Liberty's paradox is that weather gave her a dull green patina of copper oxide -- which protected her from further erosion by the elements. Maybe that was why she fascinated me. The weather is as important to the Statue as it is to me. Our saviour but also very nearly our destruction.
I wonder what the Statue would have been like if she was a real person. She would be French, of course -- Liberty was the French people's gift to the United States as we celebrated 100 years of our Republic, designed by the same guy that built the Eiffel Tower in Paris. So I picture her with dark locks gathered into a bun, her robes flowing, passionately defending liberty, brotherhood and equality to all those that would listen in a lilting French accent.
And those lips, full and, oh, ruby red, her most enchanting feature, inviting a kiss from those who offered.
I walked up to the model. It was incredibly accurate, each tiny rivet peppering the surface in criss-crossing lines, holding Liberty's skin tight to the frame. The torch was held aloft, the book clutched to her bosom. Her lips, though pale green, still full and inviting.
I reached up and placed my lips to hers, wishing that the lips could part so that I could taste the sweetness of her tongue and the tang of her saliva.
Then I heard the door swing open and I jumped away as Scott, Jean and Logan entered the room.
"You OK?" Logan asked me, and I nodded in reply.
"Well, they're in here somewhere," said Scott, and with that we started our search.
It was only the next day, after we had defeated Magneto and Jean and I stood in the medical bay watching the unconscious forms of the Professor and Wolverine, that I remembered that the model Statue had been warm to the touch...
The End