Disclaimer: I own nothing. Marvel does. Minors shouldn't drink. Uh…that about covers it, I think. Oh. And please review.
1
The worst thing about talking on the phone to an old boyfriend is that the lingering drama and emotional subtext always leave you more or less unaware of what's going on around you. Case in point, me, on a certain October evening in the middle of the week. Don't get me wrong, when you're a troubled mutant juvenile, it's always good to have buddies, but sometimes I kick myself for accepting the 'let's still be friends' speech.
So there I was, right, listening to Ev drone on about, well, I don't really remember what it was about, but I'm sure I was concerned at the time, cause even with my mad ninja skills, I was unable to detect the car pulling into the drive, followed by the front door opening.
Now, you might say, 'come on, Lee, the front foyer of a Victorian mansion is so not the place to have a serious and intimate conversation,' but to be totally frank, it's way less populous than, say, the dorm room I shared with Monet St. Perfect and the basket-case that is our resident Southern belle, Rogue. And since the rec-room, the library, any teacher's office, and certainly the classrooms are way out of the question, there I was.
Incidentally, I was in the middle of a desperately teenaged attempt to explain to Everett that, as I was up for review for the team, the big leagues, the black-leather-and-X-wearers, I would probably not be speeding over to Boston for Christmas with his parents, and that he should've told them yonks ago that we'd broken up, when I very elegantly, and with all the grace of my Olympic-level gymnastic training, fell on my butt. In my defense, I backed up into a wall first.
'You wanna look where you're goin', girl.' Said wall spoke gruffly, around a smouldering cigar end. I looked up.
'Yeah, well, you wanna look out who you pick fights with, mister.' Everett went into a hissy fit on the other end of the line, because I was talking to someone else while on the phone with him. 'Ev.' I grouched into the receiver, 'Dude. Chill the fuck out.' And I hung up.
Tall, dark, and scraggly looked at me through darkly amused blue eyes. 'That's a bit harsh.' He observed. I snorted.
'Obviously you've never had to deal with a possessive ex-boyfriend.'
'If I did, I don't remember.' He hoisted his duffel bag with a faintly resigned air.
'So you're back, huh?' I pretended it was a casual question, but just between you and me, I don't think he bought it. I mean, when your roommate (see above: basket-case Southern belle) is nursing a hero-worship crush on a dude, you know about it, and I wasn't all too pleased to know that she would soon be turning into a squeeing, blushing, eye-batting fangirl. I mean, she had eighty per cent of the male population of the school eating out of her hand, but a Canadian wild man with just enough domestication not to eat on the floor turns her into aforementioned fangirl? Bitch, please.
'Guess so.' He replied casually, and as he turned out of the foyer, I saw that the back of his wool-insulated jean jacket was, well, decimated. There was a group of bullet wounds grouped suspiciously close round what I think was his spleen, and the blood soaking through the denim was only just drying. Ew. I followed him as he stalked (I kid you not, stalked) into an elevator.
'Dude, can you hit me up before you see Scooter for the first time, cause there's this adorable pair of motorcycle boots I've been looking at, and I could make bank selling tickets.'
He turned abruptly, and, reaching forward, poked me hard enough to send me stumbling backward out of the elevator. 'Go update your myspace page, kid.' He snarled.
'Want me to grab you some Ensure first, grandpappy?' I screehed as the doors slid closed between us. Smooth, Lee. Real smooth. Well, in all fairness, he looked beaten up, and I had a vague suspicion, based on the conspicuous battle-wounds, that he wasn't back so much for warm and fuzzy hand-holding with Rogue as for reinforcements. Whatever it was, I wasn't sure I wanted in. I dashed up to my dorm, and wished suddenly that I hadn't. 'Oh, my God, Rogue! Hang a freakin' hat on the door or something! I think I just threw up a little in my mouth.'
'Or you might try knocking.' Bobby hissed, as his partner-in-snogging tugged a sheet hastily over her chest.
'On my own bedroom door? Come on, Drake. You graduated with not-shitty grades.' I paused then, and, sighing at my sap-happy soft-heartedness, said, 'You have fifteen minutes, and if Monet comes back, I'm not responsible for any following hysterics. You know what a drama queen she is.' I turned and headed back out the door, feeling like a dear, sweet idiot. What the hell was I going to do to kill a quarter of an hour?
Moments later, my eyes were alight with unholy glee as I sped down the hall toward the lower levels. I knew just where I could find a bouncing blue somebody who shared my passion for junk food.
But Hank wasn't in his usual battle station in his stainless laboratory. The lights were on, as were a pair of Bundsen burners and an ocular device I'm pretty sure is illegal for civilian use, but no Beaster. After a quick glance, I borrowed the family-sized pack of Twinkies and went in search of Hank. I allowed myself some snooping, and, give the girl a prize, I found him in Med Bay. With Grouchy. Neither of them saw me as I came in the door, and, considering they both have some fierce sniffers, I must have been downwind or something. Logan was sitting bare-chested on a bed, and Hank was applying ultrasound gel to his back. If you squinted, you could imagine all sorts of naughty scenarios, but we all know that I'm not that kind of girl. Ahem.
'Logan,' Hank was saying, 'I'm not sure, even with your healing factor, that I can siply cut into you to remove it. From your description, it sounds like a mobile device, which can move unassisted around your body.'
'Look, McCoy, do what you've gotta do. There should be a pretty strong heat imprint.' He growled as Hank began to move the ultrasound sensor across his back. 'It's down near my left lung. I can feel it. It's hot as heck. Hurts.' He winced, and on the screen, both Hank and I were able to see, clearly, the outline of a small, spider-shaped something, floating eerily round inside his body. I figured now was the time to lay aside my ninja stealth. Tossing the package of Twinkies in the air and catching it, I stepped forward.
'Dude, that is mondo gross.' Hank look startled at my appearance, but Logan merely glanced my way. Yeah, he'd probalby known I was there since I'd stepped in the door. 'What the heck is it?'
'Some kinda tracking device.' Logan replied, and for the first time, I realised that he looked tired. His shoulders were bowed, hunched forward. There was a tightness in the corners of his eyes, and his lips were pinched. Not that I was staring at his lips or eyes or anything, cause that would be...uh…gross. 'It doesn't activate for another hour or so, but McCoy's bein' bashful about getting' rid of it.'
'Lemme see.' I brushed the ultrasound sensor away, and, pretending to ignore Hank's spluttering protestation, laid my hand, palm flat, against Logan's cool skin, still sticky from gel.
'What're you doing, kid?' Grouchy-butt demanded. I looked up at Hank, whose brain had already caught up. His deep blue eyes were as bright as one of my fireworks.
'Why, Jubilation, that's brilliant! Can you….' He hesitated. '…can you feel it?'
'Loud and strong, Beaster. Wolvie's right. It's real hot.'
A brief digression, for those who are unfamiliar with the finer points of my mutation. Technically, I'm pyrokinetic, but, because my powers deal with the transmutation of energy, I'm not only about to make very hot things, I'm also able to sense them. I'm invulnerable to fire, yes, and I make pretty fireworks, but I also have sort of a groovy spatial awareness based on heat. The fact that I didn't register Logan coming through the door is an indication of how much Everett pisses me off. Basically, I can sense things that give off enough heat. People, animals, mistreated computers, and that little spidery bugger in Logan's body. Anyhow, he didn't know me from Adam, and I don't blame him, with the amount of kids at Xavier's, so he obviously had significantly less of a clue about my mutation than, say, Hank, who nearly wet his pants when he found out I could sense heat signatures with enough proximity.
'What the hell is going on here, kid?' the Wolvster was getting, if possible, crankier.
'Waitaminute. You were trying to get Beaster to get at that, like, with a scalpel or something?' the thing beneath my hand began to migrate lazily, and I followed it, idly noticing that Hank's very irritated patient was also very built. I guess a healing factor does wondrous things to a body.
'You have a better idea, kid?' he snapped back. Ooh, guess little Mr. Ew-Get-It-Out-Now doesn't like being condescended to. Well, neither did I, and that 'kid' business was starting to get on my nerves.
'Hank, which end do you figure he'd like it from?' I quipped, deliberately turning away from Logan. Hank gave me a reproving look.
'Do you think you could maintain a plasmoid in stasis for long enough? And could you contain the detonation enough to avoid significant damage? Forgive me, dear, but your restraint has been…occasionally in question.'
'Oh. Totally. Did you not see my control read-outs last week? I'm the freaking queen of control and restraint.' I winked. 'You know what they say. Beauty and brains, with a fetish for chains.' Logan's shoulder twitched marginally under the completely involuntary continued exploration of his back. I'd completely lost track of the spidery thingie (yes, that's a technical term).
'Well,' I could tell Beast was having a crisis of conscience. On the one hand, there was the opportunity to conduct a dangerous experimental medical procedure on a patient that would almost certainly shake it off within ten minutes, and on the other hand, there was the Hippocratic Oath. 'Logan would have to consent to the…erm…the procedure.'
'What exactly is going on?' I pivoted on my toes and assumed my best bedside manner. 'Well, honey, take a gander, and don't be scared.' I lifted my hand from his (deliciously sculpted—down, girl!) shoulder and generated a wonderfully sparkly and very non-intimidating pink plasmoid. 'This is a paff. Wolvie, paff, paff, Wolvie.'
'An' what, am I s'posed to be impressed?'
I grinned. 'Good thing you're pretty.' He didn't like that. Growled, in fact. 'It goes into you, and—' I detonated the little sparkly with a snap of my fingers, '—poof goes your spidey little problem. I promise it'll hurt less than Hank slicing you open like a Christmas ham.' He gave an involuntary shudder. 'Sorry, you not religious? Holiday ham, then.' Without turning my head, I knew Hank was giving me a look. 'Anyhow, I can feel where your spidery little buddy is, cause of the heat it's putting off. Actually, judging by the coolness of the surrounding bits, it's probably leeching energy from you to start itself up.'
'So what you're saying is that you wanna put one of those…paffs…in my body, to blow up the tracking device.'
'Pretty much, yeah.'
He stared me steadily in the eye. I couldn't help but lift my chin a little, and reinfoce my psionic shields, even though I knew he had no psychic powers, but there was something unnerving about the way he was looking at, no, through me. Finally, when I was sure that soft violin music was meant to start playing, he nodded once, curt and certain. 'You'd better not put anything pink in me.' He leant back on his arms, and I glanced at Hank. He was so excited he was nearly shedding.
'Wonderful! Now, Jubilation, you're going to want to insert the plasmoid through his mouth, correct?' I shrugged.
'I can probably generate one directly in his body, if I concentrate hard enough.' I leant forward, ran my hands along Logan's back again, to locate the tracing device. A lump formed in my throat when I found it. 'It's just here,' my fingers tensed against his skin. 'near your heart.' Logan cursed softly. 'What does that mean?' I inquired, suddenly anxious.
'Means it's gonna hurt like a sonofabitch.' He replied, avoiding my eyes. 'Go on, kid. Do it.'
I nodded, and concentrated hard. I could feel the little tech piece pulling energy directly from his heart, pulsing eagerly with every beat. Very carefully, I wrapped it in a fluid pocket of plasmoid. I couldn't promise it wasn't pink, but it felt too tenuously powerful for that. The gadget began to suck heat from my plasmoid, and I increased its power, channelling a stronger connexion with me, adding layers, creating a web-like structure round the device, avoiding places I could feel were responsible for drawing power. Logan turned his head, and met my eyes again. He was tense, braced. 'Ready?' He nodded. 'Three, two, one.' And I let go.
It was a perfect tempest in a tea cup. Logan's body jerked between my hands, just once, hard. A hiss of breath exhaled from between his lips, and he went a little pale, bu the managed to remain upright. He was still looking into my eyes, and in his, there was an unspeakable trust. I looked away. I could no more hold his gaze than carve a facsimile of Mount Rushmore into the Jüngfrau. His hand touched me, unexpectedly, big and warm, wrapping round my wrist. 'Hey. Darlin'. I'm all right.' His voice was low and rough, threaded with pain, but stead. 'Ya did a good job.'
'Yeah.' I cleared my throat. 'Course I did. I'm Jubilation Lee, don'tchya know?' I nodded to him jerkily, fighting to pull the mask of indifference back on. I managed before I looked at Hank. 'So. I'm pretty sure I vaporised all the bits. You wanna do another quick ultrasound?'
'Nah, don't bother, McCoy.' Logan ground out, heaving himself to his feet. 'I'm gonna get some shut-eye. I owe ya one, kid.' He winked at me, and I grinned, still off kilter, but not feeling nearly as shitty.
'See ya round, Wolvie.' I flashed Hank a smile, nicked up a couple Twinkies, and headed back up to my dorm. I didn't realise I was shaking until I picked up my phone to check whether Ev had texted. The dorm was empty. I guessed Rogue and Bobby had gone off to his place. As for Monet, she was probably brooding on the roof with Remy or something. Ev had texted, incidentally. And called. Four times. I sighed and pressed my speed dial to voicemail, bracing for his barrage of guilt inducing messages. By the time they were over, I'd regained a sense of normalcy, and, after showering and checking my email, I turned in for the evening.
As I lay awake, I heart Rogue come back, and then, later, much later, came Moet. I was stoically faking sleep, partially trying to convince myself that sleep was actually possible. My eyes were startled open when, instead of heading for her own bet, Monet sat on the edge of mine. 'Jubilation,' She's a telepath. 'I know you are not asleep. Your poor shielding has been giving me a headache. You are usually very restrained. What is happening?'
I opened my eyes. 'Nothing,' I thought back, consciously collecting the shreds of my unmonitored shields, 'nothing at all.'
'Very well.' She swept backward, and that was all. Weird.
