All right. I believe everything has FINALLY been figured out (thanks to all the astute readers who corrected my booboos). I don't own 'em. I just know 'em like the back of my hand (or like to think that I do). I wonder if there's a way to put illustrations in here? That would be cool. I'm an artist too . . . so . . . ya know. Oh well.
After I write this, I might have to go back someday and rearrange it all into a real script. Sometimes I find myself taking too much advantage of the print medium, and telling too many feelings (a common trap in fanfiction)—that's supposed to either be demonstrated in action or in dialogue. Another note: I describe a lot, because if it were a movie, the visual paragraphs could be translated to audience comprehension in a fraction of a second. It's kind of annoying.
Just thought y'all might like to know what goes on in my head 'bout fanfics. Anyhoo . . .
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One day later, in the mansion med-lab,
Jean held a gold fountain pen, filling out the medical reports on her patients. Storm had been a cinch; just loaded into the computer file. However, this new mutant required a whole new form, in triplicate hard copy. Paperwork was such a bore. Name: (Gambit ?) Height: 6'. Hair: Auburn. Eyes: . . . (good thing some person had the foresight to leave a space for "other") Eyes: . . .Red on black. It didn't look any better in her neat, un-doctor-like script. She would never admit it aloud, but his eyes unnerved her, even though they hadn't been focused on her for almost a day. She found herself staring towards his bed—the only occupied one in the wing, since Storm had left earlier that day—when she saw that he was stirring. His metabolism had to be incredibly high. She'd administered enough morphine to keep him out for at least six more hours. (He wasn't really that badly hurt—in fact, the high metabolism would explain how he was healing so quickly—While Scott and Professor X had "compromised" on the Gambit' issue, he had been kept drugged for at least a day.) She scribbled a note about metabolism in the margin (so she'd remember) and walked over to update his chart.
Remy was getting a wee bit tired of waking up and not knowing where he was. (That happened enough when he had a little too much fun and beer) He had definitely not had fun last night . . . day . . whenever . . . and he didn't think he'd had beer. He was laying on his stomach; his back felt a lot better now. Through the dissipating haze of morphine he could feel that his side was stitched up and bandages wrapped around his chest. The sheets—the sheets smelled way too clean. Not hotel-clean . . . no, this was hospital-clean. He reached up to rip off that damn oxygen tube thing when he realized he wasn't alone.
"Hello there," Jean's businesslike voice managed to sound warm. "I dimmed the lights, so you can probably open your eyes." She was right. Minimal pain. He ripped off the damn oxygen thing. She wouldn't stop him. "Oh—I think . . . um . . ."
"It's all right, chere," he assured her. God, he hated hospitals. He was leaving any way he could. "Maybe you be tellin' me whose hospitality I be enjoyin'?"
"Oh. You're at the Salem Center, in Westchester, New York. Currently the sole occupant of our med-lab."
"Merci beaucoup—Jean, isn't it? Did'ja get de license o' de truck dat run me over?" She was beautiful—at another time he might have flirted for real—but she was also a telepath. A spook.
She smiled. "Which one?"
"Y' know, chere, I jus' can't decide." He flashed her a reassuring grin as he sneakily sat up. "Cut, burnt, knocked out, lectured . . ."
"Ah . . .yes. I'd like to apologize for Scott's behavior, but it was understandable, given the circumstances—he was a little distraught . . ."
"Wit' a femme like you by his side? What's he got t'be distraught 'bout?" That grin again. "It be like my pere always tol' me—'stay away from dose redheads—dey's dynamite.'" She blushed (his voice was so warm, so sincere), which gave him time to slip off the bed. As long as he rambled—preferably complimenting the woman as much as possible—they didn't seem to know what he would do next. Hopefully his charm wouldn't fail him now . . . "He always say deir tempers made de chase a bit risky, but I jus' can' seem t' feel dat way—it's de danger dat makes de chase worthwhile, neh?" She was completely caught. He slipped towards the door while she stared, entranced. Classic. Good thing
"Jean, about these pills . . ." Ororo stopped, confused, in the doorway. Jean was staring like a ninny at the man who had saved her, clipboard in her hand . . .
" . . .What, Ororo?" Jean murmured finally, swaying. Hypnotic low-level charm—have to watch this one. Jean was embarrassed she had fallen for it. But the man was like a stone, his defenses even tighter than last night. She sensed not a shadow of a psyche. It was hard to tell with all the charm oozing from his pores, but he was probably thoroughly upset with her, as well, for invading his remarkably well-guarded privacy . . . "Just a moment, Storm . . ."
Gambit, however, had not missed a beat. He immediately turned to Ororo and swept her an impressive bow, kissing her hand. Storm looked surprised and flattered. "Ah, here's de lovely lady I have had de pleasure of assistin'. I trust you feel better, chere?"
"Indeed. And I must say, you look ready to be out and about," she teased gently, since he obviously wanted out of the med-lab. He was edging toward the door even as she spoke.
"If it's all right with you, Jean, I believe I would like to speak with this young man. Would it be all right if we went up to my greenhouse?"
Jean hesitated, then softened. She still felt guilty about her accident last night, and wanted to make it up to him, he was almost healed, Storm could take care of herself, and he wasn't the enemy . . . her mind was still whirling from his charms. She reached into her pocket and handed a new pair of sunglasses to a smiling Gambit, saying "That would be all right, Storm. And Storm—" she called as they walked through the door, "—you should take the pills three times a day, not two." It did come in handy to read minds. She had to remind herself of that, sometimes.
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"I don't like it." Scott's face and voice were stony as he stared out the window of Xavier's office. The late afternoon sun lit his glasses to glowing scarlet.
"Do you mean that you don't like an unproven stranger's presence in the house," Xavier asked calmly from his desk, "Or that you don't like HIM in the house?"
Scott gave him a look.
"Just curious," Xavier responded innocently. He finished filling out the Requested Services form on the Blackbird—good thing he knew some quiet mechanics. Scott was a great leader, but he did have a few rough edges to be worked out. Jealousy, for one. Xavier didn't quite understand it—anyone could see that Jean was totally devoted to him (even without the added surety of telepathy/empathy).
"Do the words 'The money was good' ring a bell? What am I supposed to do with someone like that? What can you hope to accomplish by taking him in?"
"First of all, Scott, I'm not even sure he wants to be 'taken in. One, he's a little old for a student, and two, he broke into a maximum security prison and probably could have broken out of it, too, had we and the Brotherhood not intervened. That is not the work of an amateur."
"Great, so you want to recruit a professional jailbreaker."
"I wish to recruit outstanding, willing mutant ability. Have you seen the charts Jean has drawn up on him? Apparently, he has the ability to convert stored potential energy into kinetic energy, basically creating a bomb out of anything he can touch. Not only that, but she said you all witnessed that he has amazing agility—Jean wrote something about an enhanced bone structure somewhere . . ."
"Professor, that's fascinating, and I'm sure I'd rather have him on my side than the Brotherhood's, but he's not exactly the stand-up-for-justice type. How could he fight with us when he freed humanity's greatest living enemy for a briefcase of small, non-sequential bills?"
"Your fiancé also said that he has some sort of low-level hypnotic charm, and . . . ah . . . I quote, 'is incredibly attractive.' You're sure that has nothing to do with your feelings for him?"
Scott turned, scowling. "He's rude, insolent, and dangerous. He is a menace to our team and a detriment to our cause. Tell me, Professor what other feelings SHOULD I have for him?"
"All you have convinced me of today, Scott, is that your view of the world—and authority—differs from his." Xavier disliked doing this. It's not a good thing to make your team leader doubt his judgment, but . . . "I most definitely intend to talk with him myself. If I find his usefulness outweighs his risk, I will ask him to stay on a trial basis. Is that clear?"
Scott sighed, gathering his thoughts. He paced slowly across the floor, and looked Xavier in the eye. "What makes you think he won't turn on us if 'the money is good'?"
Xavier stared right back, but without challenge. "I suppose we'll have to take his word for it."
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Another survey: (but not about catholics (thanks for everyone who responded so amusingly ;) ) –who all out there believes in Faeries? J
Not fairys. Faeries. I'm doing my term paper about them. Heehee!