Boston, Massachusetts
The Past, Three Weeks Ago
Jean stood from the office chair, her arms stiff to her sides, her hands clenched into fists. She was furious, and unlike the time she spent as Number Five enduring imprisonment under Sinister, she was able to channel her anger into action. The lackadaisical calm of her dead sister Three could not mute her rage, the spitefulness of sister Two only sharpened it. And the domineering nature of One wanted to assume complete control over the situation.
Below stairs, Jean could hear the woman moving about her home. The woman was now in her kitchen, opening a cupboard, then the refrigerator. How dare the woman go about her life as if she hadn't robbed Poppet of his? Jean walked towards the landing to look down the staircase. She moved to the far side of the loft, towards the rear of the house and the back window which overlooked a shared courtyard. Jean would wait here for the woman to rise up from the staircase and then confront her with her misdeeds. She would watch Helen's expression to confirm her guilt. Then Jean would shatter her mind.
There was a clicking of a dog's nails on the floor, the gentle jingle of the tags on its collar. Jean heard the dog's tread upon the wooden risers. It was coming upstairs. Jean looked around and spied a dog bed under the back window. Beyond the window was a small landing for a fire escape. Jean happened to glance up and across the courtyard to the house there. There was a window just like the one she was standing in front of, as well as a matching fire escape. A boy was sitting in the open window, the pale window curtains falling around him like a gauzy cape. He was watching her. The boy waved.
Jean was startled by a small surprised bark. She turned to see the small peachy-colored poodle standing in the room looking at her. It barked again, startled at her intrusion. Jean let out a shaky breath and put her hands over her face.
What am I doing? she thought. She couldn't kill someone, a total stranger. The woman must be mentally ill. Jean would have to see that she sought help, perhaps by giving her a mental suggestion. Maybe the woman would turn herself in for what she had done. Jean felt herself moved to tears. How could she have thought to commit such a crime?
"Stay where you are," said a voice.
Jean pulled her hands away from her face to look up into the barrel of a gun. The woman, Helen, was standing at the top of the staircase, leveling a gun in Jean's direction. Jean took in the woman's appearance. Helen was slender, perhaps a little too thin. Her brown hair was still neatly pinned at the back of her head. Her eyes were hazel and full of hot menace. Jean had thought her attractive from a distance. She was, but now closer, Jean could see the lines around Helen's eyes and lips. A frown line creased her forehead.
"Who the hell are you?" Helen asked and after a brief considering pause she continued: "Another one of his sluts?"
Jean felt a thrill of shock go through her, spreading from her chest down to her fingers and toes.
"I – I'm not –," Jean began. "I wanted to talk –."
"I'm sure you did, chèrie. Do you think you're de first girl t'come to my door? Tellin' me I'm not good enough for him? That you're de one he really loves?" Helen asked, holding the gun steady, trained at Jean's chest. "I was once in your shoes. I've heard it all before."
Jean's eyes narrowed as she felt the threatening anger return. This woman was insane, completely delusional!
"Let me tell you somethin', girlie," Helen snapped. "You aren't his one true love. There's at least a dozen more. And besides, I can tell from de looks of you – you aren't his type. You're too damn old."
"You –," Jean hissed out. "You killed him."
Helen seemed surprised for a moment. The color seemed to leech from her face. Her lips trembled before she pressed them together. She drew a shaking breath. With bravado, she spoke: "Yeah? You should be thankin' me. I did you a favor."
Jean took a step forward and the little dog rushed her, snatching at her ankles with its teeth. Jean swept it aside with her foot, causing it to yelp. Suddenly, Helen was striding towards her, the gun held purposefully.
"You bitch!" Helen said just as Jean threw herself forward.
Jean grasped the woman by the wrist and pushed the gun upwards as Helen continued towards her. The dog dashed underfoot, barking and biting. Jean felt herself trip on the dog and she fell against the other woman. There was a sudden loud pop and a gasp. Jean pushed away from Helen and stumbled backwards.
Helen too took a few shaking steps, her body canting to the side. She put a hand to her ribcage. A blossom of wet red had appeared on her blouse. Helen looked at the blood on her hand with shock. Jean looked down at herself. There was a spray of blood on her jacket. It was not her own.
Jean looked up at Helen, who was holding her side and gasping. There was a thud as the gun hit the floorboards. The little dog was running around, barking at Jean ferociously. Jean hastily backed up several steps. Helen sank to her knees, a look of agony on her face. Jean found herself shaking her head from side to side, as if to deny the reality of the situation. Jean felt a rush of overwhelming emotion, fear and panic and shame. She was torn between falling towards the woman to help her or fleeing. Jean put a hand to her mouth as she gasped. She turned to look about helplessly for some solution. She cast her gaze out the window. Across the courtyard, she should see the rustle of curtains as the small figure of the boy disappeared from the window.
"Oh, no...," Jean moaned into her hand.
Jean turned back to Helen who was on her knees clutching her stomach. The dog worried about her, whining pitifully. Just then, the window at the front of the room was forced open. The pair of French doors flew inward. A cloaked shape appeared in the window, a silhouette against the twilight.
"What the hell?" the cloaked figure said, stupefied for a moment.
Jean could barely get a register on the newcomer's sudden appearance before she found herself the target of a flying dagger. Jean threw up a telekinetic shield and caught the projectile the instant before it would have pierced her heart. The stiletto blade hit the floor with a clatter as Jean fell backwards to hit the wall. With a startled cry, she ducked the second thrown blade as it struck the wall beside her head. Jean threw open the back window with her telekinesis and leapt through the opening. She fell in an undignified heap on the metal fire escape landing. Jean gripped the railing and pulled herself to her feet, then leapt over the banister into open space.
With her telekinesis, she guided herself to the courtyard bellow. Jean risked a glance upwards to see the dark figure appear at the window. As soon as her feet touched the ground, Jean started off at a run towards the alley between two of the row houses. Using her telepathy, she shielded herself from view. Jean darted down the alley and turned out onto the sidewalk. She found herself on the next block over. She was out of breath from fear. Jean looked right and then left. The street was empty. She hastily turned and looked up at the row house she now stood beside, the twin to the home she had just fled. She could see the windows on the second floor were lit. Her mind was fearful of the attacker; the person who had thrown the blades was likely the assassin who had killed Poppet. But Jean was also conscious of what the young boy had witnessed from his window. What had he seen? Would he report what had transpired? Worse, would the terrible memory follow him for the rest of his life?
Jean started towards the door, realizing now that the lower portion of the row house was the newsstand she had passed earlier. The shop was unlit and the sign in the door read: Yes! We're Closed! Jean forced her way inside and quickly closed the door behind her. She prayed the door was not protected by another silent alarm. Jean turned. The shop was dark and silent. She cautiously started forward, keeping her tread light. She hoped there was a door leading upwards to the next floor, which must be an apartment. As she approached the counter, she heard a rustling noise followed by a knocking sound. Jean froze to listen. She glanced behind her, looking for the assassin. But Jean was alone. She heard the sound again. It was coming from the back room. Jean slunk behind the counter and into a kind of workshop. There were pieces of mechanics, scraps of paper written over in scribbles, and unidentifiable bits and bobs lying on every available surface. A calendar, several years old, was hung on the wall. Jean heard the rustling noise continue. She spied a door at the back of the shop.
Once at the door, she pressed her ear to the wood. The rustling noise was frenetic, and came in short bursts of activity. She wondered what it could be. Jean tried the doorknob and found the door unlocked. She cautiously pulled open the door. Jean stood at the base of a narrow wooden staircase. Halfway up the staircase was a window, a yellow shade had been drawn over it. On one of the steps was a small reddish bird, a house finch. When it saw her, it took flight to flap against the shaded window. The bird was causing the rustling noise. Jean took a few steps and the bird became frightened. She paused, and with her telekinesis, raised the shade and then the window. Then she gently guided the bird to freedom.
Jean took the rest of the stairs to the window just in time to see the bird fly into the sky. Jean startled. The sky beyond the window was bright with daylight. But that was impossible! It was nightfall just a moment ago! The bird flew off into a bright blue sky, chirping several times. Jean found herself looking out the window down into an alleyway. A gray cat was prowling in the trash. The building next door appeared to be a small grocery. A shopkeeper was hosing off her front walk. Jean drew away from the window experiencing a strange sensation of vertigo. She seemingly had transported to another place and another time.
What in the world? she thought. From above came the muffled sounds of footsteps. She heard someone speaking. There was laughter. Jean cautiously started up the steps to the door at the top of the staircase. She hesitated, then put her hand to the doorknob. The brass doorknob felt warm in her hand. She turned it and the door opened.
Jean stared into hot white nothingness. With a gasp, she pulled the door shut. Jean turned and hurried back down the steps, her heart beating arrhythmically. She had passed the window by the time her footsteps slowed. Jean came to a halt before reaching the base of the staircase. She heard the upstairs door reopen. Jean slowly turned towards the sound, fearing what she might see. There was a child at the top of the steps, peering at her through the small crack between the door and the doorframe. When he spotted her he gasped and closed the door. Jean started back up the stairs, her feet feeling leaden. Once at the top, she looked down at her coat. She saw it was spattered with blood. Jean unbuttoned her coat and hung it on the end of the hand rail. She looked at the innocuous-looking door. Either there was a boy behind the door or...
This is it, Jean thought. This is me finally losing my mind. I've gone insane.
She put her hand to the doorknob once more and turned it. Slowly it opened. Jean found herself looking into a hallway. To her right was an opening to a common room, a living room. To her left were a pair of closed doors. Towards the rear was another open entry leading to a kitchen. At the very end of the hall was another closed door. Jean stepped into the hall. A narrow area rug ran the length of the hall, muffling her footsteps. Jean turned and peered into the living room. The bay window had a small window seat before it, laden with decorative pillows. The window was partially shaded, but it appeared to be night once more. Beyond the window, it seemed there was another cityscape. It appeared she was now in New York City. She began looking around the room for more strangeness, but it all seemed very ordinary. There were tastefully simple furnishings, a couch and love seat and club chair surrounding a low coffee table. The walls were painted a warm white and there was an assortment of paintings hung all around the room; everything from Impressionist works to Abstract Expressionism. Jean stepped into the room. There was a Scrabble game set up on the table for three players. Jean turned her head to read the words that had been spelled out on the board. The word closest to her was "axent" which wasn't a word at all.
"Dad's losing pretty bad," said a voice.
Jean yelped in fright and spun, throwing out a hand as she did. A telekinetic bolt sent the speaker falling backwards. He hit the hallway floor, a gasp of air leaving his body.
"Oh, my gosh!" Jean said, seeing too late that it was the little boy.
The boy looked startled for a moment, then burst into tears. He let out a wailing: "Oww!"
"I'm so sorry!" Jean said and dashed forward. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you. You scared me. Are you all right?"
The little boy was rubbing his eyes with his knuckles. Jean saw that his hair was very fair, a bright red-blond and it was longish. His skin was very pale. The boy sucked in a few tearful gasps and looked up at her. With surprise, Jean saw that his eyes were red. Not dark red, as Remy's were, but the irises were a bright red that flashed, like an animal's eyes caught by a beam of light in the night. He squinted at her, his cheeks blotchy from tears.
"I'm sorry," she told him again. She reached out to put a hand to his shoulder, but thought better of it. She didn't want to scare him any more than she all ready had. He might have been four or five years old. Jean looked up and down the hall.
"Are you here by yourself?" she asked.
"No," he told her. "You're here."
"No, I mean – isn't there anyone else with you?" Jean asked.
The boy wiped his cheek with his hand and sniffed. "Granddad," he replied. "He's supposed t'come. He's supposed t'read me a story."
Jean wondered where the boy's grandfather was. She glanced at the other closed doors, then back the way she came. There was no sign of another adult.
"Are you hurt?" Jean asked, turning back to the child. "I pushed you pretty hard."
The boy pulled his legs under him and stood. He rubbed his bottom with both hands, his lower lip stuck out in a pout. "I'm okay. I'm not hurt," he said and after a moment, he brightened a bit. "I guess I scared you pretty good, hunh?"
"You did," Jean admitted. "I didn't hear you coming at all. You're very quiet."
The child spontaneously grinned, as if she had paid him a compliment.
"Do you want to play a game?" he asked and pointed at the Scrabble board.
"Can you play Scrabble?" she asked, surprised.
"No, I don't like that one. I want to play Memory," he said.
Jean looked at the boy carefully. He was wearing a set of thermal pajamas and his feet were bare. "Are you supposed to be in bed?" she asked.
He frowned again. "Owwhhh," he whined. "I don't waaant tooo."
Jean was crouched down on the floor with the boy so that they were the same height. "What if we got you a glass of water first?" she asked, thinking to shepherd him to bed. Perhaps while he slept, she could find out what he knew and it would not be so invasive.
"I want a Coke," he said.
"You can't have soda before bed," Jean told him. "How about milk?"
"Mmnn," the boy responded, relenting slightly. "All right."
He turned and trotted down the hall towards the kitchen. Jean followed. The boy was standing on the hall carpet looking into the kitchen. "The floor is lava!" he declared and took a running jump onto the floor mat under the kitchen table. He scurried under the table and then clambered up into a chair. From there, he climbed onto the table top.
"I don't think you're supposed to be up there," Jean told him as she stepped into the kitchen.
"Augh!" he cried at her. "The floor is lava! You're burning up! Hurry, hurry!"
"I don't burn," she told him with seriousness. "It's my power, it protects me."
"Nooo!" he said. "No powers! That's cheating!"
Hoping to keep the boy quiet, Jean complied and stepped over onto the floor mat. She took another step over to the pad on the floor under the sink. She had to turn awkwardly to get the refrigerator door open. She peered inside and found a glass bottle of milk. Jean took it out and turned to the cupboards. The kitchen was small, but it was bright and cheerful. The cabinets were painted a glossy white and the countertops were speckled yellow and gray. Jean could see out the window over the sink. There was a small window box planted with herbs just outside the window. The scenery had changed again. She was now looking through a decorative wrought iron railing to the streets of Paris.
Jean turned to look at the boy. He was still sitting on the table with his legs dangling. "Where are we?" she asked him, confused.
"Home," he told her playfully and hunched his shoulders into a shrug.
Jean looked up at the cupboards. She found a glass behind the first cupboard door she opened.
"Can I have a cookie?" the boy asked and pointed to a jar of cookies on the countertop.
"Are you allowed to have sweets before bed?" she asked him and raised her brows. She passed him a glass full of milk.
"We could split it," he told her as he took the glass.
"You're quite the little negotiator," Jean told him and lifted the jar lid. She selected a cookie. They appeared to be homemade as they were horribly misshapen. She broke the cookie in two and handed the boy one half. Jean sat in a chair beside him while he ate his half of the cookie and drank his milk. Jean took a bite of the cookie. It didn't taste as bad as it looked. When the boy was done, he handed her the empty glass. Jean lightly brushed the crumbs from the front of his pajamas, then picked up the crumbs on the tabletop with her forefinger. She brushed them into the glass and then set it into the sink.
When she turned, the boy raised his arms. "Carry me," he told her.
"Aren't you too old for that?" Jean asked.
"Not right now," he replied, wiggling his outstretched fingers. "Pick me up."
Feeling strange in this surreal place, Jean stepped forward and put her arms around the child. He wrapped his arms around her neck and his legs around her waist. The boy was not very heavy, he was fairly thin under his pajamas. She carried him from the kitchen and down the hall. She came to the door at the end of the hall, thinking that since it was at the back of the house, it likely overlooked the courtyard. Or at least it should, if they were still in Boston and not somewhere else. Jean shifted the boy to her hip and opened the door. She found a child's bedroom. It was decorated with things that could fly; planes, jets, helicopters, birds, and bugs. Jean set the boy down onto the coverlet of his bed. He stood and hopped a few times, then flopped onto the mattress. Jean went over to the window and peered out the gauzy curtains. She saw the courtyard and the matching row house. Jean drew the shade and turned. The little boy was pointing a gun at her; a yellow, red, and blue plastic ray gun. When he pressed the trigger, the gun lit up with multicolored lights all along the barrel and made an electronic "weeooweeooo" noise.
Jean felt a flutter of nervousness. "You've shot me," she said. Her smile was weak.
The boy's face had been serious when he fired at her. Now he was on his knees, holding the toy gun in his lap. He fiddled with the buttons. "It's a healing gun. It makes people better. I invented it," he said, looking down. He reached under his pillow and began pulling out an assortment of oversized plastic tools in various colors.
"Did you?" Jean asked and walked slowly towards the bed.
He nodded wordlessly and picked up a plastic screwdriver. He pretended to work on the gun, making noises through his lips as he did. Jean sat on the bed beside him.
"It's a prototype," he told her seriously.
Jean laughed a little bit. "You're very clever," she said.
He glanced up at her and then away, smiling again. He held the ray gun out again, pointing it at her chest. "Needs more testing," he said. "Hold still, it won't hurt." He pulled the trigger again and the gun made its sound and lit up with flashing lights.
The boy looked up at her. "All better?" he asked.
Jean nodded.
"Okay, now you do me," he said and gave her the gun.
Jean held it in her hand and looked at him. "Where are you hurt?" she asked.
"Here," he said and pointed at his heart.
Jean pretended to shoot him several times, as if administering a shot. He sat on the bed, his eyes closed, enduring his treatment. "How's that?" Jean asked. "Better?"
The boy reopened his eyes. "I feel the same," he observed, looking disappointed.
Jean glanced at the window and then back at the boy. "What do you feel?" she asked.
The child shrugged.
"Do you feel scared?" she asked.
He seemed not to want to answer, and he scooted up towards the head of the bed and kicked back the covers with his feet.
"Did you see something that frightened you?" Jean asked.
"I see lots of things," the boy answered. He put his toy tools onto the nightstand.
"Like what kinds of things?"
"Tuck me in," he told her and then lay down onto his side. He put his hand on his pillow and then settled his head down. He was facing away from her, looking at the door.
"You can tell me," Jean said. "It's okay."
"I'm sleepy," he told her and closed his eyes to demonstrate.
Jean patted his back and then pulled the covers up over him. She thought she should see what he knew, then erase it from his mind. She wondered where his parents were. She wondered where she was. Jean brushed a few of the pale blond hairs back from the child's forehead and studied his face. He was really very cute. But he did seem a little frail and it was clear that he was exhausted now.
Jean caught a hint of movement and looked up to see the bedroom door opening fully. She startled and quickly stood from the bed. There was a man in the doorway. He was not tall, but the same height as Jean. His light brown hair, which was pulled back from his face, had begun to turn gray. His goatee had also grayed. Jean concluded that this must be the boy's grandfather. The man's eyes were blue, and as he looked at Jean, he betrayed no emotion.
Jean however, was frightened. "I'm sorry," she told him. "I can explain." Before he could act, she had entered his mind. She was going to block all memory of herself from his thoughts. To her astonishment, she found that he was not surprised nor frightened to find Jean in his grandson's bedroom. Jean quickly withdrew to look more carefully at the man.
He was holding her tan jacket in his hand. "Are you hurt?" he asked her, gesturing with the coat. He had kept the blood-splatters away from the child's view.
Jean blinked at him, then slowly shook her head from side to side.
The boy had sat up in bed, his arms extended to the man. "Granddad," he said and extracted himself from the covers.
"Now, stay in bed," the man told the boy. But the boy didn't listen. He climbed out from the bed and hopped over to his grandfather. The boy put his arms around the man's waist and hugged him.
"I –," Jean began, at a loss. The man was studying her carefully. "I'm not sure..."
The man crouched and picked up the boy with one arm, then transported him to the bed. He set the child back down, then set a hand on top of his blond head. "Settle down now," he said to the boy.
"Read me a story," the boy commanded.
"Not right now," he told him patiently. "Can you tell me... I need to speak to The Witness. Is he here?"
The boy frowned. "No," he answered sullenly. "He closed the shop. He said I was annoying him."
"Don't take it to heart," the man replied. "He didn't mean it."
"He's a grumpy grouch," the boy said and glanced at Jean. "He said he didn't want things to get weird. Weirder."
The man also looked up at Jean. "Yes. I see."
The boy was holding a pocket watch in his hands. It had seemingly materialized from thin air. The man glanced down as the boy clicked the watch case open. The man put a hand to his coat pocket to find it empty. "You little thief," he chided the boy fondly and mussed his hair.
The boy grinned at him and hugged the watch to his chest with both hands.
Jean shook her head, perplexed. "What is...? What is going on?"
The man beckoned her forward. "Let's talk outside," he nodded at the boy. "You go to sleep now, Jackie."
The child flopped back into the bed. He held the watch out in front of his face, peering at it nearsightedly. "I don't want to hear your boring talk. Tell me a story."
"Now you're sounding as grouchy as The Witness," the man told Jackie. "Go to sleep."
Jean hesitated before following after the man.
"You forgot to kiss me goodnight," the boy called after her.
She stopped and turned, then slowly approached him. Jean leaned forward and kissed his forehead. "Better?" she asked.
Jackie nodded. He tucked the watch under his pillow. His strange red eyes were half-hidden behind heavy eyelids. She gave his blond hair one last stroke before following the man into the hall. He turned and clicked off the bedroom light before saying: "Sleep well, petit." The man then pulled the door closed. He left it open a fraction so that the hallway light shown into the room. Jean found herself standing very near the man in the narrow hallway.
"Do I know you?" she asked him.
"No, not yet," the man replied.
"But you seem to know me," she told him.
"I do," he said.
"Time travel?" Jean guessed.
"Something like that," the man replied. "We're somewhere outside of time. It's a sort of bubble... or maybe like a stone in a stream. Space and time flow around it, but it stays in the same place. I don't fully understand it."
"I am sort of familiar," Jean responded, thinking of the hot white room she had once exiled herself to. "I've been someplace similar before. But who are you?"
"I apologize... I forgot to introduce myself. I'm Jean-Luc," the man said.
Jean's eyes widened in surprise. "Jean-Luc LeBeau? Remy's father?"
He nodded. "And you're Jean Grey...unless you're going by an alias? Jillian...?" he smiled and raised his brows.
"But – how did you know that? Did you speak to Remy?" Jean asked.
Jean-Luc shook his head. "I haven't spoken to my son in some time."
"I don't understand...," Jean began. "He said he was going to meet you. I thought you had arranged to meet with him?"
Jean-Luc's brow furrowed. "No...," he began. "He's been avoiding my calls."
Jean shook her head. "He said he was going to meet his father. At the shop. Unless he has another father I don't know about."
Jean-Luc seemed to pale at this statement. Jean could sense a flash of fear from his mind. "Perhaps we should go," he told her. "Leave this place and get our bearings."
Jean glanced back at the bedroom door. "But what about him? Jackie? We can't leave him all alone."
Jean-Luc shook his head slightly. "He's very good at looking after himself. In a very literal sense. You don't have to worry."
Jean bit the inside of her lip. "I'm afraid he might have seen something that – something that frightened him."
"He often does," Jean-Luc said with a sort of resigned sigh. "He was old before he was ever young. I would have liked to see him grow up... see de in-between part."
"I don't understand," Jean said.
"It will make sense someday," he told her and then looked her over. "Maybe sooner rather than later."
Jean-Luc turned and Jean trailed behind him. She felt confused. Jean-Luc opened the front door and started down the steps. The pair exited the apartment through the workshop and then passed into the newsstand. Jean-Luc turned and offered her her coat, holding it out for her so that she could put her arms into the sleeves. It was a strange sort of familiarity, considering Jean had only just met the man.
"I'm guessing it was cold when you first came in," Jean-Luc said.
"March," Jean told him. "In Boston."
The man nodded. "The same for me as well."
They stepped out onto the street. Jean looked around nervously. It seemed that no time had passed at all. "Jean-Luc," she began. "If Remy went to meet you –."
"I haven't seen Remy," he told her. Jean-Luc now seemed anxious as well. "I can't recall when we last spoke."
"But you called the safe house," she told him. "After I, uhm...broke into the safe."
Jean-Luc shook his head. "No," he said. "I didn't know you were at de safe house. Something is not right."
Jean felt afraid. "But who called? Why would Remy think –?"
Jean-Luc suddenly startled and said: "Agh! Dieu!" He put a hand to the front pocket of his slacks. He fumbled in his pocket to extract a cell phone. "I will never get used to dis thing!" he said irritably. Jean watched as he tried to unlock the phone with his thumb. The phone continued to buzz in his hand, signaling an incoming call. He added irritably: "I have no idea how it even works."
"Here, let me," she said and Jean-Luc relinquished the phone gratefully into her hands. Jean unlocked the phone with a swipe of a finger and then pressed the answer button. She held the phone to her ear. "Hello?"
There was a pregnant pause, and then a somewhat tentative: "Is – I'm calling for – Jean-Luc?"
Jean felt as if ice water had flooded her veins. The rough voice on the other end of the phone connection was unquestionably familiar. It was Logan. Jean heard herself take a quick intake of breath. Her arm instantly extended to Jean-Luc, holding the phone towards him.
"Hello?" asked Logan's voice through the phone.
Jean-Luc looked at Jean questioningly and then took the phone. "'Ello?" he asked. "Yes, speaking." Jean-Luc listened for a few moments, his expression changed to one of confusion. "Ah... but how –? When was this? He's sick? Sick wit' what?" As Jean-Luc spoke, his accent became more pronounced. Jean could sense his agitation. "I'll be there as soon as I can," he told the caller.
Jean-Luc disconnected the call and looked up at Jean, his expression perplexed.
"What is it?" Jean asked fearfully.
"Remy's in New York," Jean-Luc answered. "That was de – headmaster of de school. He says Remy is terrible sick."
Jean was stunned. How did Remy get back to New York? When did he fall ill?
Jean-Luc looked as surprised as she was. "I have to go. He said that Remy was asking for me," Jean-Luc said. "Something is wrong. It must be serious."
"Don't say that," Jean said, hoping to comfort him. "I'm sure it's going to be all right. He'll have expert care."
"I've never known Remy to ask me for anything, least not for himself," Jean-Luc said and Jean could feel his anxiety touched with sorrow. "He's only ever once asked for my help. And that's still yet t'happen."
~ oOo ~
Next time: The Witness Stand.
I won't be very speedy with updates in the future, I'm afraid. I just haven't been in the mood to write.