Disclaimer: You know what's a great word? 'Purloined'. Great word, fantastic even...look it up.



Author's Note: I would like to hereby state that no, I have ABSOLUTELY nothing against Jean Grey. I love and adore her. She is, hands down, my FAVOURITE character of all the X-Men.
So why, you may ask, do I have her crashing into things and ending up in big trouble? Well, I answer, one simple reason.
I don't believe in hero worship. I think its more appealing to find the delcious flaws in someone than to go on for three paragraphs about the beauty of their eyes.
So anyone who may think I'm one of those terrible Red-bashers, take heed. I am not, and never will be.




Bad Days Part Two
Wake In Vain




Doctor DeAngelo paused at the doorway of the hospital room. He stared back at the sole occupant of the room, his mind strangely blank as he registered the image she made.

She was barely above a Jane Doe. The police at the site hadn't recovered any identification till earlier that morning, which was then put off until the afternoon sun was beginning to peek out from behind the clouds. DeAngelo didn't like to tend to patients whose family he hadn't met, especially when the patient had been out cold since the night before.

He allowed himself a moment of apathy for the woman lying in the standard hospital bed. She would have been very lovely, he decided, if her hair wasn't matted to her pillow, or perhaps even if she gained some of the color back to her face. The thought evaporated from his mind just as quickly as it had been born.

She did however, DeAngelo admitted silently, look dangerously fragile, beneath the heavy medical machinery towering over her small frame like hulking giants, amidst the tangle of tubes threatening to bury her.

The few interns that shuffled around her, pressing buttons, switching tubes...they too were trained to become impassive to the patients that found their way here. DeAngelo guessed from their spilt second pause that maybe they had noticed precisely what he had a moment ealier.

Angelo's distant train of thought was interrupted by Colleen, a nurse on his floor. "Doctor, her family is here," the petite blond told him, habitually straightening her uniform. "They're at the front desk."

DeAngelo murmured a distracted 'thank-you' and picked up the clipboard lying on the table just inside the door. With practiced ease, he slipped into his doctor face and ceased to be Reggie DeAngelo, father of three and coach of his youngest son's baseball team. He became Doctor Reginald DeAngelo, trained medical physician and this patient's doctor.

He found the family, or what looked to be passing for family, with ease, since they stood out in these monotone corridors like red on black.

DeAngelo noted the difference they had drawn between themselves and the rest of the hospital. They were huddled together, in a sense, as if they were afraid to branch out, lest they mesh with the other people in the corridor. They weren't many, really, five or six at the most. But there was a feeling that preceded them, that extended from them, that took up the corridor.

DeAngelo cleared his throat and approached them.

He despised this part of the job.

"Hello, I'm Doctor DeAngelo." He held out a hand to the man who had walked out to greet him upon sight.

"Scott Summers." He ran a hand through his hair. "How is she?"

DeAngelo nodded. "Much better. She's been stabilized since we brought her in."

"Stabilized?" The man repeated (what was his name again? Oh yes, Summers). "I see."

"Mr. Summers, I assume you are...?" He glanced down at the sheets tacked to his clipboard.

"Her husband, yes. Can I see her?"

"Not right now. She's sleeping."

A younger man appeared to Summer's right. "What happened?"

DeAngelo pursed his lips and drew a deep breath. "If I could just talk to Mr. Summers a moment-"

"Go ahead, doctor. It might be better if you told us all at once." Summers motioned for a stunning dark woman to stand behind him, and whispered something to the large man who walked up to stand opposite him.

"Well," DeAngelo began, choosing his words very carefully. He took a spilt second to read the name off his sheets. "Jean was brought in here last night around nine forty, suffering from a few broken bones and some internal injuries. From what we gathered at the scene, she was involved in an accident with her car...no one else was hurt, don't worry."

"Her car?" A new voice asked, coming from the black woman who'd moved next to Summers.

"Yes, her car," DeAngelo nodded, not quite sure how to phrase the next few sentences. "It had crashed into a telephone pole."

"Excuse me?" That was the younger one again, with the sandy blond hair. "Somebody drove her into a telephone pole?"

"No, not exactly." DeAngelo shifted his weight. "We've got reason to believe she very well did it herself."

"But that doesn't make any sense, Doctor..."

DeAngelo took a deep breath. "We ran a few tests and at the time of the accident she had a blood alcohol level of-"

"A what?" Summers was obviously being given a rather rude awakening.

"Mr. Summers, if you'll just let me finish."

"Could I please see her?"

DeAngelo was about to tell him once again about her current condition, when the hall doors swung open to herald the arrival of two more of their clan.

DeAngelo stifled a sigh; he was well aware it was turning out to be one of his more difficult days. And, so far, he realized ironically, the patient was far easier to treat than her family.

For the moment the doctor, who was proving to be more of an annoyance and less of a help than Scott would have hoped, was forgotten as Marie and Remy caused a small parade of activity around them. They both looked slightly more upset than Scott would have placed them, and were also dripping wet. Great, looked like it now raining outside, to top everything off.

"Oh Scott, where is she? What's wrong?" Marie blurted out immediately, her wet hair dripping all over the tiled floor.

Scott ignored the question for the time being. "You didn't have any trouble getting the message?"

"Well, we were halfway to Mississippi before it caught up to us, but oui," Remy reached for Marie's hand. "We got de message."

Scott chose to wisely swallow the comment he wanted to make about the likelihood of that happening if he'd just carry a two way pager like everyone else.

Scott turned back to the doctor, who was waiting patiently for his attention. "Her parents are on vacation somewhere in Italy, but I might be able to contact them by next week." He stiffened considerably. "If the need arises," he added, in a tone that hoped the need did not.

The doctor only nodded solemnly and continued to tell Scott things. Things he failed to hear, because he was concentrated on the persistent chatter behind him.

"Where's Logan?" he heard Bobby ask. "I thought you stopped by the mansion to get him."

"We did!" Marie exclaimed, exasperated. Remy was busy telling something else entirely to Ororo. "But when I told him all we knew, he started yelling at us. He went all crazy before I even got the words outta mah mouth..."




She sat patiently, without opening her eyes, to wait for the pain that was throbbing behind her eyes to slowly subside. Her wits were still taking leave of her. She was well versed in waking up with soul numbing headaches; she was, after all, a telepath, and had been for most of her life. With great effort she pried her eyes open, thinking of perhaps opening the curtains to what would hopefully be a sunny day.

She instinctively held down the scream that had grown in her throat, since she was in a hospital, and for some reason she remembered that hospitals had those no noise signs posted outside. She did not, however, prevent her spine straightening from shock, and soon found herself in an alarming amount of pain.

This is all a very bad dream, she told herself harshly. Pinch yourself, and you'll wake up at home, comfy in your Ralph Lauren sheets and you can go open the damn windows to let the damn sun in.

However, Jean found it nearly impossible to move anything beneath her neck.

Still a dream! she assured herself as she slowly eased herself back onto the hard lumpy pillows and shifted her head so it was relatively comfortable. She let out a deep sigh, causing in the process a painful spasm in what she guessed to be her right lung.

She looked from the corners of her eyes at whatever wasn't directly in front of her. Gosh, for a dream, it was all so vivid. Including the pain that shot through her when she so much as blinked. The walls were an eggshell pink, from what she could tell, and she had obviously been given the worst possible bed in the place. There was a set of windows to her right, with dark blue curtains that didn't match the rest of the room (not that was probably a big concern or anything). The only door was in the corner of the left side of the room, next to a picture window with blinds that were only partially closed.

Jean saw movement outside her window and settled her head against the rocky pillows once again. She shut her eyes just as the door opened, hoping that faking sleep would make the person go away.

"Sit up, Jean, I know you're awake," said a deep, male voice. "I saw you stir not two minutes ago."

Reluctantly, Jean opened her eyes. She watched as the man in the official doctor coat scribbled a few things onto his clipboard. She felt her face grow warm as she realized he had spoken to her as if she was a child. "I'm sorry, I'm just very tired."

"Of course," he said, and Jean couldn't figure out if he was being sarcastic or amusingly tolerant. He looked at her from behind thick tortoise shell glasses and attempted a sad looking smile. "I'm Doctor DeAngelo. I attended to you last night."

"I...I don't remember," Jean stammered eventually. "Have I met you before?"

"I couldn't imagine where," he smiled, revealing a mouthful of pearly white teeth. "No, don't try to move." He paused and pressed a button on the beeping machine next to her bed.

Jean looked away from her doctor and drifted down to his ID card, attached neatly to his pocket. It showed the same handsome black face that stood in front of her. Her gaze drifted to the rest of her bed, where her legs and arms lay seemingly useless.

"Am I paralyzed?" She asked bluntly.

Doctor DeAngelo, who had grown used to the silence, held back a tiny chuckle. "No, Ms. Grey, you are not paralyzed. And you can thank God for that."

"Why can't I move my arm?" she continued, in the same bleak tone used for her earlier question.

"Because. You've fractured your collarbone," he replied cautiously. "No, everything's fine, don't panic, don't move. It's a common symptom of a broken collarbone; that arm may be limp for a few more days."

Her collarbone? How ever did she manage that? "Why am I here, Doctor Angelo?"

DeAngelo tried to keep his voice casual, for her sake. "You were in an accident with your car." He stood tall by her bedside. "You don't remember?"

"No," she replied absently, "I don't."

"What DO you remember?"

"I..." She tilted her chin toward the window as she searched her memory. "I spilled Bobby's money."

"I see."

Suddenly her eyes widened and she turned abruptly (well, as abruptly as one can manage in a cast) to the doctor. "What was I doing in a car crash?!?" she asked, horrified.

He patted her hand reassuringly. "We're trying to find out, Ms. Grey."

Jean saw this gesture as somewhat pitiful, and wished she had more liberal control of her hands. She finally managed to curl her fingers under, shooting pain up and both arms. She winced.

The doctor broke contact, noticing her pain. "I'm afraid you've got a few more hours of staying as still as you can to look forward to."

"Isn't there anything you can pump into that little plastic bag?" she moaned despairingly. "Or maybe some Children's Tylenol? I'm not choosy."

"Not for another hour at least. You've had a very rough night." She opened her mouth to question that last statement, but he cast a warning glance at her. "You'll have to tough it out."

DeAngelo briefly noticed how she managed to pull off a pout with a three inch gash on her forehead.

She closed her eyes and thought for a moment while he did whatever it was doctors did with the plastic bag. Her knowledge of the medical practice didn't extend far beyond the odd ER episode. Jean noticed the plastic tube attached to her hand and would have grinned at the novelty if she had been brave enough to risk the pain a smile would cost her.

"At least tell me the extent of my injuries," she said shortly, having already mentally weighed her options. "I should know what it is that's causing my head to-"

"How IS your head?" the doctor inquired, leaning in to closely inspect and adjust the bandages taped to her forehead.

Annoyed at the change of subject, Jean was tempted to lie. "Terrible. I can barely form coherent sentences without suffering a migraine."

"Okay," the doctor replied slowly. "As for the rest of you, I've already told you about the collarbone. It's what is called a comminuted fracture, which means the bone has splintered where it was broken." He traced along Jean's left shoulder, which was overtly pointless, since she could barely move her head. "That's why your left hand is limp; you might even start to see swelling in a few hours."

"Something to look forward to," Jean muttered darkly. "Anything else?"

DeAngelo walked to the edge of her bed and lightly tapped her right foot. "This ankle has a sprain from when it wedged between the pedals, so that's a little swollen. That should be better in a few weeks, maybe a month. You've got a nasty bruise on your elbow there and..."

"And?" Jean piped up as he seemed at a loss for words.

"And," he pointed to a spot on his own forehead. "Your forehead hit off the steering wheel right here and suffered quite a blow. No, don't move. Don't even try to move for the next twenty four hours. There'll be plenty of time to obsess about the size of that bugger when you get out of here," he advised, allowing his mouth to lift into a smile as she saw the somewhat worried look on her face. "It should heal very well."

That last sentence seemed to comfort her for a moment. But soon that was replaced by a look of annoyed displeasure. "Are you going to tell me how I ended up here?" She asked in a softer voice than he would have expected. "I really don't remember."

"I think it would be best to wait on that, Ms. Grey," Doctor DeAngelo replied quickly, moving towards the door. "Do you think you're up to have visitors?"

Jean's eyebrows raised, which, in her current state, was no easy feat. "Visitors? I have visitors?"

DeAngelo nodded. "They've been out there for hours now. A small army." He tapped out a small rhythm on his trusty clipboard. "Shall I show them in?"

"Is..."

"Yes, your husband is out there. And gathering up half of Manhattan to wait at your bedside, might I add."

Jean smiled, pleased the pain was beginning to fade. "My extended family, I assume." Realizing that the feeling was returning to her right arm, she raised it to half-heartedly feel her hair. "Do I look half as terrible as I feel?"

"You look fine," was the best Doctor DeAngelo could come up with without telling a bald-faced lie. "But I can hold them off till tomorrow. After that, no promises."

Jean succeeded at nodding once, not without great difficulty. "That would be just fine. I'm in no state to see anyone," she noticed his slight barely there smirk and continued, "...physical or otherwise."

"I'll see you tomorrow morning then, if not sooner."

"Thank you Doctor. Good afternoon."

"Good night," he corrected quickly, as he closed the door behind him.

The door clicked shut, and the room was void again. The silence in the room was only interrupted by the steady beeps on the heart monitor next to her. For the first time since she'd woken up, Jean slowly inched her head around with the finesse of a newborn to look at the clock placed on her bedside table.

8:02pm, proclaimed the glowing red numbers flashing on the little clock. So much for pulling open the curtains to let in the sunlight.





And On That Note: I hope you have a wonderful day.