Jean-Paul blinked away the blurry tiredness in his vision, a soft sigh leaving him as he stretched his arms. When his arm fell back down, it landed on something hard, something cold, and something moving. He turned his head and saw the reflection of his dark blue eyes in the silver sheen of Piotr's body. He had hoped that his dream hadn't been a dream, and that Piotr was flesh and bone again. He ran his hand over the other's metal chest, struggling to roll over and prop himself up in order to look at his sleeping partner better.
His flailing about woke up Piotr who was staring at Jean-Paul with his eyebrows raised. The solid silver that covered the curve of his eyes made Jean-Paul long for the other's ocean blue eyes more than he ever had. Even more than whenever they hadn't seen each other for weeks on end. Piotr sat up, yawning and exposing even more metal, his teeth, tongue, throat. All of it was metal. Jean-Paul reached out to Piotr and pulled himself into the other's arms. They were cold and hard and nothing like what Jean-Paul really needed or wanted, but they were Piotr's and that was all that mattered. He laid his head on the other's chest as questions were asked but he stayed quiet. He stayed quiet until, "Did you have a bad dream, lyubimaya?"
"No," Jean-Paul breathed. "It was a good one."
The sudden lack of movement from Piotr informed Jean-Paul that he had understood what he had meant completely. "Oh."
They sat there in the tense silence for a few minutes until Jean-Paul's stomach growled and Piotr gently moved him to get out of the bed. "I'll go start breakfast," he said, standing and stretching. "Do you want help getting out of bed?" Jean-Paul swallowed and sighed, nodding his head. Jean-Paul held his arms out so that Piotr could lift him up from under his armpits. His torso was tense against the other as he was carried, but his legs hung limply underneath him. Piotr set him gently down in his wheelchair before pressing a gentle kiss to Jean-Paul's head, but the kiss wasn't soft, it wasn't warm. It was all cold, hard steel. Unmoving, uncompromising. Jean-Paul gripped the wheels of the wheelchair but quickly let go and sighed.
"Jean-Paul, are you alright?" The concern in Piotr's voice made Jean-Paul's stomach turn. "You're… you're unhappy, aren't you?" Jean-Paul's face contorted and he looked up to see nothing but sadness in Piotr's face. "You're unhappy and it's my fault. I am sorry, Jean-Paul."
"No! N-no, Piotr. No. This isn't your fault. Please, don't think I'm ever unhappy because of you. That's just not true. I just. I dreamt I could run again…" His voice dropped in volume. "And when I woke up and couldn't feel my legs I just… I'm sorry. It's not you." He saw Piotr's hand clenched into a fist, the coils of metal shaking and twitching. He reached out for his hand and held it in his own. The cold disturbed him but he said nothing and didn't recoil. "Piotr, it isn't you."
Piotr sighed, the tension in his body dissipating some before he turned to smile at Jean-Paul. "Alright. I believe you, lyubimaya. But you cannot be upset with me for being worried. I did do a lot wrong which ultimately led to us being in this situation. I'm going to make breakfast now," He went behind Jean-Paul and began to push him out to the dining room. "Oy yebat'," he said. "I forgot we were out of milk. I meant to get some yesterday."
"I could go out and get some if you need me to," Jean-Paul offered, wanting an excuse to get out of the apartment and breath some fresh air. Piotr gave him a look before nodding. "I'll be back as soon as I can." With a quick, cold kiss, Jean-Paul left the apartment and sighed. Right to his left were three more apartment doors and to his right, another two. The dirty grey hallway lead to a set of cage doors for the elevator. A set of equal dirty stairs ran six stories down and Jean-Paul felt a sudden pang of desire and he had to blink away the tears that were suddenly in his eyes. He wheeled over to staircase and stared down them. His heart was thudding and then suddenly, as if he couldn't control himself, he flung himself down the stairs. Jean-Paul felt his hands hit the corner of one of the steps, the sharpness biting into his palms and pushing tendons aside. He flipped over himself, his useless legs snapping as he felt a sick heat pour out of his nose. Bones were breaking, tendons snapping. He felt himself in agonising pain, black creeping around the edges of his vision. He tried to call out for Piotr but he was choking on his own blood and… oh God… He was dying.
And then he was back up at the top of the steps, the wheels of his wheelchair precariously close to the edge of the top step. His heart skipped a beat as he quickly wheeled backwards. The elevator door squeaked open, the sound grating on Jean-Paul's ears but hardly heard above the blood rushing through him. He blinked and turned to see the faces of the people on the elevator. A young woman had her arm out to keep the door from closing as someone else opened the gate. "Uh, hello," she said, pity in her eyes, in her voice. She glanced in the elevator, frowning to see it was fairly packed. "Do you want to try and fit in here with us, sir?"
Jean-Paul felt his stomach twist in disgust at their faces, their voices. The way their demeanor had changed from awkwardly cramped tenants to people who don't know how to handle a cripple. He wanted to scream but he swallowed and plastered on a smile. "No, it looks pretty packed in there. Just, send it up when everyone gets off, alright?" A few people looked over at each other with uncertainty. A few people stepped out, giving Jean-Paul sad eyes and strained smiles. "We can just take the stairs down," one of them said, patting Jean-Paul on the shoulder. "It's not a problem."
Through gritted teeth, Jean-Paul thanked them. Everyone made room for him while he wheeled himself in, jaw clenched behind a toothy grin. "Thank you. But you didn't have to go to all this trouble." After dismissive words and clicking of tongues, they were making their way down to the lobby. The door squeaked open and the gate was pushed aside as Jean-Paul began to wheel himself out. He just wanted to get some goddamned milk, not be looked at like he was a tragedy by every stranger he passed on the street.
Piotr already looked at him like that enough as it was.
He was wheeling his way to the store when he decided to cut through a small park. He stopped as he was crossing the bridge, eyes sadly watching the creek as children squealed somewhere behind him and car horns honked out on the road. And suddenly, it was like the stair well all over again and he saw himself floating down the river until he got caught on something and died a terrible death. Water filling his lungs and foam in his mouth. His eyes bulged as he drowned, unable to breathe water like some of the other mutants. Jean-Paul was suddenly breathing air again, his chest heaving and his eyes watering. He had been so focussed on the thought of killing himself that he had completely missed the person approaching him. That was, until they were there.
"Northstar, right?" Came an almost nasally voice, cocky but tired. Jean-Paul looked up and him stood Magneto's son, Quicksilver. He was dressed to blend in, his silver hair lazily combed. His icy blue eyes were fixated on Jean-Paul. Jean-Paul swallowed hard, scowling.
"What the hell do you want, Quicksilver," he hissed, scathing tone in his voice. This man was a part of the Brotherhood. This man had killed hundreds if not thousands of innocent people. And here he was, standing in front of Jean-Paul, looming almost.
"I just want to talk, Jean-Paul," he quipped leaning against the railing and looking at the water below.
"Northstar. I'm Northstar to you."
Quicksilver hardly took notice of Jean-Paul's interruption. "I know you're hurting. I know. Trust me. And before you ask how I know what you're experiencing, let me explain. You're power is running. I mean, you have other powers and it's almost insulting to just say you're running. But, that's the basic downplay of your power. You run. And you run fast. But… but now you can't run. You're stuck in a wheelchair. You don't get to feel the pressure of the wind on your face or hear it howl beside your ears. The cold slaps on your face that leave tears in your eyes and colour on your cheeks." He took a deep breathe. "Anyone else in that wheelchair could probably still use their powers. Kitty could still phase, Jean could still use her telekinesis and telepathy, Kurt could teleport… Hell, that hunk of a boyfriend of yours could still use his muscles and strength." He turned to face Jean-Paul. "But you, Jean-Paul, you can't do anything now that you're in that horrible thing. You're restricted. You're useless. You can't do SHIT!" He looked around as he noticed he got a little loud and sighed when no one was looking.
"If you came here to gloat, you've successfully done it," Jean-Paul breathed, eyes filling up with water. "Now leave me alone," he snapped. "And you can call me Northstar."
"Why call you Northstar when you might as well be a homo sapien for the rest of your life?" He laughed lightly but the smile dropped. "But, no, Jean-Paul, I didn't come here to gloat." Jean-Paul didn't bother to correct Quicksilver this time. "I came here to talk. It sucks, being in a wheelchair," he walked behind Jean-Paul, hands on the metal bars of the wheelchair. Jean-Paul didn't look back; he didn't want to see just how close the other really was. "I really do understand it," he breath was hot on the back of Jean-Paul's neck and he had to fight everything not to shudder. "I was shot in the kneecap by my own father. And unlike some mutants we know, I don't heal at an exponential rate. I had to heal like everybody else. In fact, I was lucky to be walking at all." He moved away and walked back in front of Jean-Paul, who now noticed the slight limp. "The time I spent in a wheelchair were some of the worst moments of my life."
"I was depressed, suicidal. Why live if everyone has to do everything for me? Their smiles of patience and understanding. The way their eyes held pity and sadness and maybe a little bit of relief that it wasn't them in that godforsaken chair. The way they would open doors and make room and their words were always way too sweet to be sincere. I know what you're going through, Jean-Paul. Because I went through it. I thought about killing myself, as I'm sure you have too. Maybe you don't want to kill yourself, but you've thought about it. I can help you, Jean-Paul. I can make you walk again."
Jean-Paul's heart skipped a beat and he sucked in a breath. Then he shook his head. "No. I don't… I don't need anything from you or your friends." Quicksilver was behind him again, and he heard the cracking of his knuckles.
"Let me convince you otherwise."
And then they were running. It was like everything Quicksilver had said it was. The euphoria of the speed made Jean-Paul's blood pump hard and fast. It had been months since he had felt this king of speed, this kind of high. If he was being honest with himself, he was feeling excitement in more ways than one. They passed down streets and he saw the people as nothing but blurs. Colours were running together, creating a bleeding rainbow before Jean-Paul. All too soon, he and Quicksilver were back on the bridge. If anyone had been looking at them, it might look like they had shifted slightly off to the side, not that they ran all over New York. Jean-Paul was breathless, euphoria rushing through his veins. He was glad he was sitting down, because he didn't think he would have been able to stand if he could.
There was a moment of silence but then Quicksilver was talking into his ear. "So, what do you say, Jean-Paul? Do you want your legs back?"
Jean-Paul swallowed. "There's a catch. There's always a catch."
"We give you your legs back. But you're right. A catch. When we come for you, you leave with us. Doesn't matter when, doesn't matter where. Doesn't. Matter. Why. Capiche?"
Jean-Paul looked out at the water. "Could… could you do something else for me? And I'll think it over."
"Of course, Jean-Paul. What do you need?"
Jean-Paul felt bitterness in his throat and his heart was pounding. "Heal Piotr as well. Heal him and me, and I'll do it. I'll go with you whenever."
Quicksilver pulled away and disappeared for a moment. Jean-Paul knew so because he heard the sudden change in the air. Quicksilver appeared in front of him again, a jug of milk in his hands. "Deal. Here's my number, Why don't I take you home?" He began to push Jean-Paul back in the direction in which he came and, once they were clear of any people, Quicksilver ran again. Jean-Paul held onto the milk and strip of paper with Quicksilver's number, letting the air rush past him and feeling the absence of it far too soon. "Call me," he quipped, leaving Jean-Paul there with a look of uncertainty as he ran off.
Jean-Paul went into the lobby and pressed the elevator button, breathing in relief when the doors opened and showed an empty box. The trip up to the sixth floor was noisy but welcomed. The sound of the elevator made it impossible for Jean-Paul to think about what Quicksilver had come to him for. He really did want to walk again, and he wanted Piotr to be able to feel again… But he was so scared of what would happen if he agreed to go with them. Would he ever see Piotr again? How soon would they come for him? The doors opened and he wheeled down the hallway, trying to mask over any tension or worry that was showing through.
This was something he couldn't tell Piotr about.