Thanks as always to Chya, and to Jennie as well, for their enthusiastic encouragement - couldn't do it without you, guys!
Disclaimers: Sadly, none of the Mutant X team belong to me. I've just borrowed them briefly from their owners and promise to put them back exactly (well, almost... particularly in Jesse's case!) as I found them.
The lyrics are from 'You Don't Know Me At All' by Don Henley, and I hope he won't mind me using them.
No profit is being made from these stories and I don't have anything worth suing for...
LIVING IN LIMBO
By JillyW
One
"I woke up this morning
with an attitude
Looked at the headline, put me in a real bad mood..."
Daylight, creeping furtively through hastily pulled curtains and filtering behind
closed eyelids, drew him slowly and reluctantly from a deep and dreamless sleep,
and for long delicious moments he lay cocooned in that pre-waking warmth where
the world is a distant unthreatening murmur and reality holds no sway. But way
too soon his peace was disturbed by the sudden realisation that the existence
of daylight had to mean he wasn't at home. And that opened the floodgates for
it all to come rushing back, accompanied by the familiar sick feeling in the
pit of his stomach - the one he got when things went horribly wrong and he had
no idea how to fix them again.
With a despairing moan, he tugged the bedclothes up over his head to blot out the light, but that did nothing to dispel the sense of foreboding that was nagging at his mind and he knew that he was unlikely to find refuge in sleep again, at least for a while. He pushed himself upright with a sigh, rubbing both hands up over the two-day stubble and back through unkempt hair as he looked with jaundiced eyes round the shabbily appointed room in the cheap motel, the first bolt-hole he'd found after his abrupt flight from the now cloying atmosphere of the one place he'd always felt secure.
The plastic-veneered furniture was chipped, the carpet worn in patches and marred by cigarette burns, and the threadbare bedding held a faintly musty smell - all of it a far cry from the comfort and cleanliness he was used to. For a brief moment a swell of homesickness threatened to wash away his resolve, but he forced it back behind the dam he was building to contain all that he'd been so it couldn't dilute what he needed to become. This had been his choice, his decision to make, hadn't it? And after all, wasn't this really about all he deserved?
'No, not going there,' his new found inner strength said firmly, and in order to comply with it he shrugged the covers aside and padded in his shorts across to the ancient-looking TV sitting in splendid isolation on a rickety table by the door, seeking distraction. Switching it on, he picked up the remote control and started flicking desultorily through the channels as he walked the few steps back to the bed, the preponderance of cartoons and mindless chat shows telling him he'd slept late but at least not demanding any real thought from him, for which he was grateful. He'd been doing far too much thinking the past few days and he had no desire to re-visit the soul-searching and heartache it had involved.
Dropping back onto the bed again, he caught sight of the silver ring lying on the nightstand and had to quash the traitorous surge of longing it evoked - longing for someone to know where he was, longing for the sound of a familiar voice. That wasn't an option, though, not now. They'd made it that way, made it impossible for him to stay by their obvious lack of understanding. Because, even though it had been their insistence that he had to move on that had driven him to find some way to live with what had happened, something he could do to stop the hurting, to make everything all right again, they didn't like the results.
So they just kept niggling, chafing away at his sense of purpose, refusing to accept that this was the only possible solution for him. The new him. The one that would absolutely never again care about anyone. Except himself. Because caring hurt. Caring gave others power over you. Caring made you weak. And besides, if he didn't look out for himself, no one else would. Would they?
Dangerously close to allowing the well of self pity that was opening up in front of him to suck him in, his attention was suddenly caught by the voice of a news reporter on the local station he'd somehow ended up with. Her words jabbed at him with such precision it took his breath away, even as the anger that now lurked so close to the surface screamed out at the unfairness of it all. How could he put it behind him if everyone else kept scratching away at it, even here, even having removed himself from the source of the most obvious and constant reminders. But that wasn't sufficient to stop the barbs driving home, splintering the fragile barriers surrounding the memories he wanted so desperately to forget and sending him spiralling back into the horror again...
*
The heat of battle, punctuated by the grunts of effort, the thuds of impact, the occasional sizzle of one of Brennan's tesla coils... Shalimar snarling her frustration as a new wave of bad guys step up to take the place of those they've already disposed of. Blood rushing in his ears as he meets and counters the blows being thrown his way by his current opponent, savouring the physicality of the confrontation. A jarring block, a grazing fist, spinning to add power to a scything foot, and another one bites the dust.
Flicking a glance around the broad alley backing the crumbling tenement building to see Emma positioned in front of the cowering scientists they'd come to take to safety, the last line of defence, ready to bowl out anyone who got past her team-mates with her mental stun grenades. He catches a warning in her eyes that sends his focus forward again, ducking the iron bar singing his way and turning inside the swinging arm to drive an elbow into the unprotected stomach, before using his full weight to slam the man against the red brickwork and groundwards.
From opposite diagonals ahead Brennan and Shalimar converge, driving their adversaries in his direction in a flurry of kicks and punches, and he seizes the opportunity to finish this quickly, exhaling to phase the wall and beckon them towards him. He waits, subconsciously counting the seconds, watching as they dispatch the two men into its unforgiving embrace before he shuts it down, making it child's play for them to deliver the final blows that end the confrontation.
They stop to survey the carnage, sharing grim smiles of congratulation as Emma encourages their charges from their self-defensive huddle, moving protectively around them and escorting them away from the scene before any more danger can threaten.
But then the satisfaction at a job well done is suddenly interrupted by the awareness of a woman's voice inside the building, raised in anguish, calling out, screaming the name of someone who wasn't answering. He turns towards the sound, the wall behind him, his heart leaping to lodge in his throat at the sight of the small limp hand that protrudes from the solid brick.
With a wordless moan he rushes to phase the wall again, using his free arm to catch the slight form that sags from within its now fluid captivity and lower it to the cold ground. Stunned into immobility, he can only kneel there staring in horror at the blue-tinged lips, the dark lashes resting on the alabaster skin, the fragile chest resisting all Shalimar and Brennan's efforts to induce breathing and a heartbeat...
Firm hands tug at him, haul him to his feet and he shakes himself awake to the fact that the alleyway, previously void of any life beyond that pertaining to their business, is suddenly full of noise, querying shouts raining down on them from the windows above as a woman - *the* woman if her tormented cries are anything to go by - rushes past them to cradle the unmoving child, begging her to wake up, pleading for someone to help her. But it's too late.
The look of despair and desolation that accompany her appeals for an explanation, for some reason she can grasp for her daughter to be lying here instead of playing safely in their home the other side of the wall only compound the sick realisation that, in his desire to bring things to a speedy conclusion, he'd given no thought to what might lie beyond his chosen medium, no consideration to the innocent lives he might be endangering.
One voice rises above the others, accusing, condemning, placing blame firmly where it belongs, and the others take up the cry, the noise bouncing round the enclosed space. As his companions pull him quickly away he looks back, his eyes caught and held by the pure hatred in the dark gaze that follows him, promising eternal damnation for what he's done...
*
Taking a shuddering breath, Jesse struggled to break the spell and blank out the images playing before his unseeing eyes, pushing himself to his feet to stagger unsteadily to the cupboard-sized bathroom. He splashed cold water into the basin and used it to rinse the clammy sweat from face and hands, raising his gaze reluctantly to the fly-blown mirror on the wall ahead.
Behind him, the reporter's voice droned on, reiterating the police's lack of success in finding those responsible for the mysterious suffocation of 5-year-old Daisy Walker ten days previously. But he knew where the blame lay - with the man looking back at him, storm-grey eyes sombre within their encircling bruise-like shadows, guilt and pain surfacing briefly from their swirling depths before he blinked them away.
He took another deep breath, pleased to feel the churning sensation in his gut subside as he took control again. That man wasn't him - not any more. OK, so maybe he had been the cause, but he couldn't allow that to change things, to bring about a return of the emotional baggage that he'd worked so hard to rid himself of. These things happened, didn't they? And would probably happen again - life was like that, so everyone kept telling him. But next time he'd be ready.
Next time...
With an inward sigh he turned to reach for the shower controls, spinning them to full to squeeze as much pressure out of the feebly flowing water as he could. No point sitting around here feeling sorry for himself, not if he wanted to really prove that he was right and they were wrong. Not that it was that black and white, not really. It was more that they were all just too... self-centred, too sure of their own opinions, thinking they knew what he needed better than he did himself. And hypocritical too, expecting him to accede to their urging while at the same time finding their own peace doing exactly the opposite of what they were telling him. Even Shalimar - and that had been the toughest to take. He'd hoped - no, expected, that she would understand, would support him in whatever choices he made for himself. But it seemed the time for that had passed.
And, as he stripped off and stepped into the shower, he told himself firmly that it was OK, that in his new world it simply didn't matter what anyone else thought, ignoring the small voice that cried out for things to be as they'd always been again...
****