WORSE THAN USELESS

DISCLAIMER: I'm actually nicer to them than Marvel is, despite the things I put them through. Nonetheless, I don't own them. So don't sue; you can't get money out of a student.
RATING: R for violence and language.
SUMMARY: It's several years in, and Jubilee has actually aged from her permanent 13-year-old-ness. She's 19 in this... but this is set after the Trial of Gambit, and before recent events concerning Scott (seeing as it's from Scott's POV, it'd be a bit hard otherwise). Warren, Remy, Bobby, Scott, Jean, Jubilee and Logan - essentially most of the X-men - have all been captured by the FoH and collared with Genoshan-style collars. They get to experience life as prisoners... and it's not pretty.
PAIRINGS: Jean/Jubilee, Remy/Bobby, Scott/Jean, Scott/Logan h/c in non-slashy way. In response to Scorpio's "we need more femslash" comment. Okay, okay, so it's only hints and it's not exactly pretty, but...
ARCHIVE: RareSlash, WWOMB, X-Men Slash Central, my personal site - Still Brazen. Anyone else, please ask.
FEEDBACK: I crave it, I need it, bad or good, sock it to me.
WARNINGS: Mentions of rape, f/f and m/m relationships, the usual stuff in my darkfic.

As I watch, Jubilee's small hand wraps around my wife's wrist, rubbing at the inside of it. They've been 'curled' for over an hour now, and I didn't stop it happening. Didn't put an end to it.

'Curled'. That's the word the guards used when they came back and observed for a few minutes, until Logan extended his claws and put them against my neck. They scarpered pretty quick, then. Didn't want to risk pissing off the insane Canadian, I think, but it worked. See, they don't want me dead, and they figure that Logan doesn't give a fuck about me one way or the other.

As for myself... well, let's just say that I didn't even notice the pressure of the claws against my neck, and leave it at that. I had other things to occupy my attention.

Jean.

My wife. My lover. My confidante. Aside from the Team, my entire world. See, even that's built around her... making a better world for her and for the children we'll probably never have.

Well, that's all shit now. Dust and ashes and blood. My wife's blood.

I watched it all. Through a haze of redness, I watched them rape her, just outside of our cage. They put us all in one large room - God knows why. The other mutants were also kept within their respective groups. So, yes, everybody else watched Jean's rape, or watched me watching her... and doing nothing.

What could I do? Forget my 'position', my 'reputation', my need to maintain control, and scream myself hoarse calling them every name under the sun? I did it. Did I yank on the collar around my neck, the collar preventing me from incinerating the bastards that dared touch her? God, I pulled so hard I almost broke my own neck. I know that I ripped away four fingernails completely, but, Jesus, I didn't even notice.

I even - and this is how desperate I got - I even begged Logan to help me remove the collar. Use his claws. They weren't curtailed, see, by the collar, since they were a physical symptom and not a 'power'. I begged him. I pleaded with him. And he just looked at me and said that he wouldn't risk my life like that. It wasn't worth it.

NOT WORTH IT?!

I broke his nose. And without that accelerated healing, it'll take a while for it to be fixed. If we live that long, of course.

And the good, loyal husband that I am, I started trying to talk to her rapists. To reason with them. To plead with them. God help me, to even offer them myself in exchange. Anything, anything at all to stop my vision from turning even redder, even bloodier.

Nothing worked, I don't even have to explain that. They raped her, and they beat her, and they made us all watch, as if teaching us a lesson - stay in line, or we would be treated likewise.

D'you know, only Remy wouldn't sit still? He was up against the bars with me, trying to get close enough to grab one of the guards. Bobby was pleading with him to leave it be, to let go...

I nearly killed Bobby for that, not understanding his reasoning. See, if even Logan wouldn't fight for Jean, what did that mean? What kind of Team had I been protecting?

Stupid, stupid, stupid! Did I really think that they'd take it out on me if I fought back? That they'd hurt Logan if he fought back? Fucking hell they would! They stuck the muzzle of a gun into Jubilee's face and threatened to blow her head off if we made another peep.

Ah, Remy... Remy knew how they'd punish him. That's why Bobby's hands were viciously tight on his wrists, and that's why Logan grabbed him and dragged him away from the bars, leaving me to vent my fury alone. They would kill the guards if they could for what they were doing to Jean... but they would not allow Remy to attract that same kind of attention himself.

So everyone stayed silent as mice, while I - their fearless, intrepid leader - could only rage impotently as they raped and beat my wife, and then threw her back to us, barely conscious.

And all that while, her eyes had stayed locked to mine. Her body, stiff and unyielding, refusing to give them what they wanted. Refusing to cry in front of me.

D'you know, I think that if it wasn't for Logan, I might have gone insane then.

I know, I know, stupid to call Logan, of all people, my anchor...

If I could have ripped them apart with my bare hands, I could have. If I could have incinerated them, left them smoking corpses, their skin blackened and charred, I would have. If I could have hurt their families and loved ones for what they did, I would have. I would have gone inside their minds, turned everything inside out. Killed their minds, left them gibbering vegetables. I would have made them pay, again and again and again and again...

And only the strong hand closed around my wrist kept me from screaming my helplessness, my impotence. I couldn't do anything, collared like a fucking animal, while the colours around me turned from rosy pink to deep, dark crimson, draining away on the ground. The Goddamn visor had been locked on to me, practically welded to my head, to stop me from taking it off... to stop me from trying to escape.

Escape? Without feeding them their own hearts first? Not likely.

They threw her back to us, and I did what any husband would do... I went to help her. And she wouldn't touch me. Red on red on red, my red-hazed vision with blood on Jean's red hair, and I couldn't make out her features anymore amid all the blood.

In the end, it didn't matter. She wouldn't let me touch her. In her eyes, I was simply male... too large, too threatening to be seen with anything other than fury and pain and fear. I tried to touch her cheek, and she flinched away, fighting not to cry. "Leave me alone, Scott," she murmured. "Just... don't touch me."

Don't touch her. Right. I could do that. I could leave her to bleed in the corner of our cell and not try and comfort, like I watched her be violated and could do nothing. Right. Just what does she think I am anyway?

If I could have killed them, I would have. If I could have castrated them with my bare hands, I would have. Anything, anything at all to stop Jean from hurting...

And she never would. Whatever I did, it had already happened, and nothing, nothing at all would ever make it all right.

Ever had a moment of crystal clarity? You think and you think and you get nowhere, and then the rage bubbles up out of your chest as if someone crushed it, crushed you to the ground with a boot, and all of a sudden your mind is so open, and you see it all, Goddamn it, you see what you have to do. Hit Logan in practice, fight Apocalypse, swallow your pride and ask Gambit to rejoin the X-Men after we betrayed him and... oh, yeah. Anything for you, Jean. Anything.

"Don't touch me --"

And I'd never touch her again, never let anyone touch her, I needed to make it all right and nothing ever would again --

Not just my wife, my lover, my best friend, but my team-mate, looking to me for guidance, and what would I do for my team to spare them this? How could I protect them, how could I --

snickt

Claws against my neck. "You even think about it and I'll cut you open, Cyke." Logan's body was impossibly close, pressing backwards with his sheer presence, shoving me up against the wall and I wasn't even looking at him. He grabbed my chin and forced me to look at him in the eye. "You won't do this. It's not your place to choose for them."

No? Tell me, what if they'd been injured instead. What if Jean's belly had been torn loose on the outside, instead of on the inside. Would it be my choice then, to wrap my hands around that bruised neck, to kiss her lips one last time... and then to twist?

Our Father, who art in Heaven --

And I wished that I believed in God so I could curse him with giving me this impossible choice, impossible because I knew that I could never go through with it. Oh, yes, powerless even to that level, powerless to stop her hurting, just as I was powerless to heal her, to protect her.

And, still - snickt - claws against my cheek, arms against my shoulders, until I could do nothing but shake silently as I watched Jubilee approach me, pity on her face.

Pity.

Oh, Jubilation, don't you know that they might come for you next? How can you stand it? But she withstood it, and Remy obviously withstood it, and how come I didn't ever notice their eyes anymore?

"You can't do anything for her, Cyke," and God, she was even copying Logan's speech wasn't she -- "You can't help her --"

"And you can?" And I didn't yell at the younger kids, ever, I never yelled but God, she was pushing too hard, pushing too far --

"Yes."

And with that, she turned her back and went to Jean. Put her arms around my wife. And Jean let her.

She's been stroking Jean's wrist for over an hour now. I think I stopped crying a few minutes ago - not sure when I started, to tell you the truth - and just sat, half-draped over Logan's arm, watching.

After a point, you can't do anything except watch.

Jubilee isn't a child anymore, I know that for a fact now. Nineteen - on the cusp of womanhood - her strong, slender fingers stroked the blood into new patterns on Jean's body, doing all the things I used to do, before the memory of my hands was replaced by the touch of her rapists. Little Jubilee.

You know, I remember the first night Jean and I spent together. I kissed her collarbone like it was made of ice, fragile to the touch. I wanted to melt it with my kisses, have her be absorbed by me, or vice versa. Jubilee's body is considerably smaller than mine, and she fits against Jean's lap so easily. She, too, it seems, has a fascination with Jean's collarbone, and kisses it gently, gently, gently, lips barely touching the wet bruises there. I can't see her hands, until they triumphantly come up with a small piece of rag which she quickly spits on, then uses to wipe my wife's face.

I used to kiss her hands, pretty much like Jubilee is doing right now. Kiss the fingers first, suck off all the blood - of course, back then, they weren't covered in blood - and then move on to the palm. Jean has a phenomenal lifeline. If it's to be believed, she'll outlive us all. I used to think that that was something to be desired... now, though, I wonder how she'll stand it. How do you live after that? If it had happened to me, how would I have lived?

I must be shuddering, because Logan's arms tighten around me, pulling me back so I'm half-sitting on his thigh, trying to turn my face away from where Jubilee is washing Jean's face with that same expression of understanding. Oh, but I couldn't look away. I knew those eyes now, Jubilee's eyes, Jean's eyes, what did it matter anymore... both red under my gaze, both wounded. And I looked away, just for a second, and saw Bobby and Remy entwined in the far corner. Warren's wings were spread, shielding them from the guards' eyes, spread as they had been when the guards had first tried to take Jean. It hadn't done any good then, and it didn't do any good now. Warren may have hated the Cajun, but he wasn't about to give the guards the pleasure of watching Bobby kiss his lover and stroke him comfortingly, trying to keep him calm, trying to keep him from retaliating. Retaliation would only hurt Jubilee, or him, or all of them.

And the kicker? I hadn't known.

Simple as that.

Jubilee kissed Jean's cheekbone, her hand sliding down Jean's bruised back, down to where her shattered tailbone kept her from sitting properly. I wondered dimly why Jean didn't wail or cry because of it; it must hurt her. The half-peaceful look on her face tells me a lot, and I look down to where Jubilee is stroking her hands across my wife's thighs, rubbing away the memory of the guards' touch.

I didn't see it. I closed my eyes to their pasts, and I ignored Remy and Jubilee's matching wounded eyes, and the fury that held them coiled like cobras about to strike as we waited endlessly in this compound for Rogue or Storm or the Professor to save us... and no help came. None.

Jubilee carefully peeled off Jean's soaked uniform, not appearing the least bit shocked at the bruises and wounds and blood and pooling semen underneath. Taking the rag again, she wiped Jean clean with swift, sure strokes.

God, I'm such a fool.

Someone whimpered, and after a moment, I realised that it must be me. Jean doesn't even look at me as she surrenders herself to Jubilee's small, delicate hands, and suddenly I can't bear to watch this anymore.

It's funny. I was so jealous of Logan... so jealous, thinking that he could steal Jean away, because he's stronger, better built, more 'macho'... Funny, because it's Jubilee's small hands that bring the smile back to Jean's face, that let her eyes close without panic in her glassy stare.

I thought that Logan's presence alone would be enough to steal Jean from me, especially here, where everyone - including me - was so helpless... but it's Jubilee that's tracing Jean's lips with her fingers, Jubilee causing Jean to smile absently at the touch, a dimple appearing in her left cheek.

All this time, I was so jealous of Logan. It didn't even occur to me that, when I saw Jubilee kiss Jean's cheek softly, I would feel like this. The Fearless Leader. The model husband. The lover.

All that and more, the others would say. But I know the truth as Logan strokes my back comfortingly. I know the truth. I know what I am, and how I have failed them.

Worse than useless.

fin