Dear Diary

Dear Diary

Monday, July 12th

This is a first for me. I'm not sure what to write. Mum said that having this book would help me get down as much of this trip as I could and help to preserve my memories of what I've done here when I go home. Right now, I'm still trying to adjust to being here in Paris. I'm sat here in a hotel room trying to go to sleep – it's three a.m. and I still feel awake because of the damn jet lag. This seemed like a good way to make myself tired as quickly as possible, so what the hell.

So… what have I done so far? Well, I've seen the Eiffel Tower and I've seen the Louvre. They were… interesting, I suppose. I've never seen so many paintings in one place; Professor X has quite a few, admittedly, but this was quite a surprise. A nice surprise, but a surprise nonetheless. I really liked the view from the top of the Tower – I felt like I had no limits. If I had Aunt Jean's telekinesis, I might have flown from the top of the tower and not looked back, just to experience the sensation of seeing the city go by under me. As it was, I stayed there for about half an hour, just looking out at the city and thinking. I had a lot on my mind.

Why was that, I hear you ask? Well, I know you didn't really, but Mum says this whole process is supposed to be cathartic in some way, so I'll just pretend that you did. Lord knows catharsis is something I need right now.

It's been a hard two days. Without Mum or Nathan to help me with my telepathy, it's been a struggle to keep out the thoughts of all the people around the city. I never thought my powers would be so much of a curse. I wonder if it's the way that this city is filled with lovers and other romantic thoughts? It'd certainly explain a few things – like how lonely I felt on the first night here. I suppose that was kind of inevitable, given the environment I'd been in for the past two months. That was all right, though; I went out and found a bar to drink myself stupid in, which was all right, I suppose. Cost me a fortune; I didn't feel like accepting the offers of a drink from the young guys who kept trying to charm me like cut-price versions of Gambit (and believe me, that's not something you want to hear. One Cajun charmer is quite enough, thank you). Still, at least they left me alone after I gave them a good hard glare. I wasn't in the mood to hear about how beautiful I was in badly-accented English.

At least, not from them.

Perhaps if I heard it from Hank, I might be more willing to listen.

I think this is what Scalphunter called a "crush" – he used it to describe Riptide's feelings towards… who was it… Salma Hayek, that's it. But… why Hank? He's so much older than I am, for one thing. Not to mention the fact that he's covered in blue fur.

Maybe fur is what does it for me, I don't know (in which case, why haven't I got pictures of Kurt Wagner printed out from the Professor's Cerebro database and stuck on my walls? Why don't I have feelings for Wolverine? Or Walter Langkowski? No, I think it's just Hank that's the problem…). It may just be that he cared for me while I was recovering from what happened to me in Hoboken, and I'm reciprocating in some way, but what does that say about me? It makes me sound like a Stockholm Syndrome sufferer – and I'm pretty sure I'm not that fragile or stupid. I know Hank would never do anything to hurt me, because he's a friend of Mum's. She'd skin him alive if he did.

She'd skin me alive if I told her how I felt, I'm sure of it.

Settle down, Rebecca; you're over-reacting. I don't think she'd go that far. She'll be shocked, I think – that's a given – but I also think she'd understand. She told me about a crush she had on John Lennon once – but then again, John Lennon wasn't covered in muscles and hair, was he? Which makes this all the more difficult. I don't know what I'm going to do, I really don't…

Tuesday, July 13

I did some more thinking today, while I was taking a boat ride on the Seine. I'm going to tell Hank how I feel when I get back home – hesitation be damned. I can't stand this feeling being inside me any more; I feel so weak and stupid. Why did this have to happen to me, anyway? I was a Marauder; I didn't have to deal with these feelings. They weren't important. I didn't think about them. I didn't have to. Sinister told me what to do and where to be, and that was that. He never told me that I should try and exercise some kind of humanity. The rest of his Marauders were able to suppress that for the most part, so why can't I?

But why am I even thinking of that? I can't think of anything I'm more ashamed of now than what I did as a Marauder, even if it did give me the inner strength to be who I want to be. At least if Hank knows how I feel, he'll be able to help me get through it. God, I feel so stupid… I should just have tried to get a crush on Ricky Martin or one of those stupid N*Sync morons. Even the damned Backstreet Boys would be better than this. At least then I could have indulged myself with the whole package – and I could have at least put a poster on my bedroom wall to drool over. This way, I just get to feel embarrassed and awkward whenever Hank is around.

Watch me leap for joy.

Mum would probably say that it's the Braddock way – we just can't take the simple path, so we have to make things difficult for ourselves. Well, I don't want to end up with bionic eyes and a different face and body for my troubles, thank you very much. Mum's had enough alterations to last the two of us for the rest of both our lives. Just let me reach twenty-five without a single power-switch, power-change, or power-loss, and I'll be happy. I like my telepathy, and I'd like to hang onto it.

Where was I… oh, yes, I was in the middle of wailing and gnashing my teeth about Henry-bloody-P-McCoy, gorgeous-bloody-blue-furred-doctor-to-the-X-Men. Much as I know that this will change the way we relate to each other, I can't keep these feelings inside of my head any longer (even though I hate them with a passion. Why did being human have to be so difficult? I get the feeling God was having one of those days when he made mankind). Maybe Hank can talk me out of it, I don't know. I'm sure he's had to be a listening ear for the rest of the team on at least one occasion; maybe he can help convince my heart that these aren't real feelings after all, that they're just a teenage flaw that I can't get over quick enough. I'm supposed to be an adult, for God's sake! I can't keep having these kinds of stupid impulses creep up on me all the time! It'll affect my everyday existence, I know it – I saw how Riptide's performance went downhill when he was talking about that woman, and I saw how Scalphunter kept punishing him for it – and I don't want that to happen to me. I'm not that weak or stupid. I know what's happening to me; I wish I were able to burn it out of my system somehow. If only I were able to go to a local chemist and get a pill to make these stupid, illogical feelings go away, I might feel better. But, apparently, things aren't going to be that easy.

In retrospect, perhaps leaving him behind was a bad idea. Sinister's memory implants taught me all kinds of poetic little sayings, not the least of which was "Absence makes the heart grow fonder". I'm starting to think that the person who came up with that one was wiser than they knew…

Wednesday, July 14

Well, I decided to get past this ridiculous situation today. I thought I deserved the rest of my holiday intact. I needed some closure – some resolution – something! So, I made a call home about an hour and a half ago. Since it was late afternoon here, I thought it would be okay, and – surprisingly enough – it was, since it was around midday there. Mum sounded overjoyed to hear my voice – she had to stop to take a deep breath now and then because she was gushing so much. I kept telling her that I wasn't exactly gone forever, but then I suppose that's what being a parent is all about; not taking everything for granted. It's something the two of us are going to have to work on, I guess.

I told her all about what I'd done in the past couple of days, and I told her about the souvenirs I'd bought the rest of the team so far (I thought she might enjoy hearing about the cheap, richly-scented cologne I bought Gambit, and the monogrammed mug I got for Scott).

Then I dropped the bombshell. Mum sounded like she'd been gut-shot at first, which I can't blame her for. But she didn't scream at me, which was a good start, I suppose. She took a deep breath and asked me how long I'd felt this way. When she heard that it had only been a month and a half, I could almost see her relaxing on the other end of the line.

She told me that it was okay, that I wasn't doing anything wrong, and that I shouldn't worry – Hank would understand. She laughed, and told me how her crush on John Lennon had been so strong that she'd wanted to be his wife more than anything in the world. I have to admit that that made me laugh as well, and she scolded me for ruining her moment of advice-giving. "I don't get to do it that often," she said, "so don't make me feel stupid when I do, all right?" I think if I'd been there, she would have been smiling while she wagged her finger at me. Then she told me that I could speak to Hank, if I wanted to. I think this was her idea of catharsis again.

Of course, I refused.

She chuckled and I heard the sound of the phone being passed from one hand to another, and I tried not to curse out loud when I heard Hank's wonderful bass rumble on the other end of the phone.

"Greetings, oh junior Braddock," he said, and I felt my heart flutter at the sound. And oh my God, did I feel stupid because of it. I was glad I was alone, that's for sure. "How goes your sojourn in the City of Love? Have you yet found yourself a sterling young man with whom to pick the fruits of passion?"

All I could say was "Not yet." My throat went drier than the Sahara. I couldn't even lick my lips, I was so petrified. Hank didn't seem to notice, though – he told me that all I had to do was flutter my eyelashes and the boys would fall at my feet. He told me that I could have any man I wanted, because I was beautiful, like my mother – which was exactly the wrong thing to say. He wasn't making me feel any better, that was for certain. Not that he was to blame. This whole situation was all my fault. If I hadn't said anything to Mum, it wouldn't have happened – but I had, so it was, and now I had to deal with it. I couldn't say much anyway – Hank is very talkative (I think that's one of the things that made me like him in the first place. I thought it was… cute… the way he expressed himself. God, if I ever use the c-word again, I think I might have to shoot myself. It's so… insipid. Still, it doesn't change the fact that Hank's speech patterns were giving me heart palpitations, no matter how unwillingly I had to endure them), and he was happy to keep telling me how wonderful Paris was. And the sad thing was, I was happy to keep listening, despite desperately wanting to hang up and break the spell. He could have told me my forehead was erupting with pimples and I still would have sat there like an idiot, hanging on his every word.

That's when it happened. Hank was in the middle of telling me how Notre Dame was architecturally distinctive when I blurted out "I love you."

I love you. Can you imagine anything less eloquent?

At least it got everything out in the open relatively painlessly, I suppose. That's pretty much the only positive thing I can think to say about it.

Hank almost swallowed his own tongue at that, I'm sure of it. He couldn't speak for about five minutes. I swear I could hear him opening and closing his mouth on the other end of the line – which only meant that I kept trying to fill the silence with silly little apologies, like the idiot I am.

"It's all right, Rebecca," he finally said, in a really nice (nice? NICE? What kind of a word is that? What kind of a person am I turning into?!) soft voice, freed of its usual wordiness. It was… different. "You don't need to feel ashamed." He still sounded shocked, but at least he was still talking to me – which was all I thought I could have hoped for, really, at that point.

Then he said, "Because frankly, anybody who didn't love this bouncing blue sack of scintillatingly sexy studliness as soon as they saw me should have their eyes examined." I couldn't believe it – he was joking with me after what I'd said to him! But then, that's Hank for you – always ready with a quick joke.

"You're gorgeous, Rebecca Braddock. Make sure every man you ever meet knows it the way I do."

With one sentence, he made me feel better about myself than I have since I arrived here in Europe. I thanked him, and he said "We can talk more about this when you get home, if you'd like. I'd like to, you know. I miss our little chats in the med-lab."

"Thank you," was all I could say. Well, what else was I going to do? Just because I felt good didn't mean my tongue was working again. I don't think I could have said anything more if I'd tried.

"I'm going to pass you back to your mother, now," Hank said softly, and before I could protest, I could hear Mum on the end of the line again.

"How'd it go?" she said, as if she couldn't guess.

All I could say was "I hate you."

And all she did was laugh.

You know what, diary? It's funny, but I'm actually looking forward to going back home now. Hank will be there, for one thing, and we can talk this whole stupid situation out like grown adults. And I can throttle Mum for putting me in this situation in the first place. All the same, it's been good for me to get the whole thing off my chest; I swear it would have ruined my holiday for good if I hadn't.

Doesn't mean I'm going to let her off easily, though…