Ashes of Chaos: Break of Dawn
by Jaya Mitai, Mel, and Persephone
Part 11

Week Three

Rahne sighed as she sorted through everything she and Moira had identified that Stryfe could possibly be exposed to. The cleaning agent they used in the lower labs. The lemon solution for cleaning the floors, the window-cleaner, the instrument cleaner, the plastic cleaner, the laundry detergent they washed Stryfe's sheets in, and the solution they ran through the autoclave when cleaning the syringes and IV lines.

Earlier they'd also placed a little planter of African violets near his window, to add some color and make something in the room match the outlandish blanket that covered Stryfe, and had since removed it, vacuuming and putting a static filter over the air system in the hopes of catching all the pollen. After twenty-four hours, his symptoms had not improved. As he had been fine for a week, Moira knew it wasn't the room itself, so moving him wouldn't help them, and there really wasn't any place to move him but across the hall into an identical room.

There was nothing different about any of this stuff, she thought. Same type of detergent, unscented Cheer with Colorguard, and they'd changed none of the cleaners. In fact, they hadn't even mopped the floors the day before, so his exposure to the citrus cleaner was even lower. The window was closed, so no other spores could get in, and there wasn't much in the way of dust.

Moira was going through her supplies, looking for a different type of plastic syringe used, or the latex examination gloves, or even the straw from which he'd been drinking more frequently. The water he was drinking was loaded with minerals and electrolytes, flavored a slight punch, and she was thinking about giving him straight, distilled water.

He was utterly miserable, she thought with a sigh, glancing down before stepping carefully off the three-step ladder to the floor, shutting the cabinet doors above her with a frown before leaning on the white Maytag washing machine. She'd seen him today, when she'd washed his hair again, deciding on a bi-weekly routine for it. He didn't have the coordination or the neck strength to do it himself yet, and wouldn't for a few weeks still, Moira had cautioned. She wanted to start him very slowly, fearing he would over-exert himself if she gave him the opportunity.

But he already was, as the allergy only grew worse, and his sneezing was now accompanied by drainage, of a thick yellow variety that indicated he was indeed developing a sinus infection. Not to mention it made him very uncomfortable, and the OTC drugs they'd tried had had little effect. Even the cold medicine, which did not contain antihistamines but should control the symptoms, was less than effective.

And, as they were both discovering, when he was uncomfortable, he was cranky. And now he was alert enough to express it.

* * * * * * *

"Stryfe, A'm not going tae ask ye again! Open yuir mouth and say 'ah'."

He was currently staring at the weapon she held in her hand, a rather innocent looking flat stick of wood, and wishing he had the power to make it burst into flames. Just for the shock effect. "So you can gag me with it again? I think not," he grouched, a bit raspily, and winced at the pain it brought to his throat. She'd been giving him a strange, semi-thick, sweet orange fluid rather simply termed 'orange juice,' that had been helping. But she refused to explain where it came from, after his continued arguments that juice doesn't come from colors.

Moira was clearly vexed. "Stryfe..."

He finally opened his mouth, and as she had before, she used the flat strip of wood to smash his tongue down, far back in his throat, and the pull and strain it put on the back of his throat alternately hurt and tickled. He felt a sneeze coming and barely turned his head from the tongue depressor before it arrived, glad it was a single. He'd managed to escape the depressor, which he'd knocked to the floor, but cut his tongue slightly in the process.

"Oath, woman, you know perfectly well what my throat looks like!" he finally growled, too miserable to put much volume into it. "Is this the way twentieth century medicine observes continued illness? No wonder you haven't cured Legacy yet."

At that, she straightened stiffly, arresting her movement to retrieve the depressor and staring at him angrily before realizing with some chagrin that he was testing her, these days. Pushing her, to see where her limits lay. And maybe it would be in the best interest of everyone to define those for him. Loudly.

But the psychologist in her knew better, and she smoothed her features with some effort. "A'm looking fur any sign that th' pills are doing ye any good." She'd half think he wasn't taking them, but after watching him inspect them very carefully and swallow them, she knew it wasn't the case. Unless...

"Ye haven't been takin' the pills, have ye." A statement, and a weary one at that. And accurate, as she watched his eyes hood as though physical guards had been drawn over them. "Stryfe, if A meant tae poison ye, A would have done it a long time ago...." And that brought up the uncomfortable question of what he was doing with the pills, if he wasn't swallowing them. There was no place for him to put them, at least not that she could see, unless under his pillow? She'd have seen them there when they changed the sheets, though.

"What have ye done with th' pills, if ye haven't taken them?" He didn't reply, staring at her challengingly, and she sighed. "Yuir only making yuirself more miserable."

Stryfe folded his arms clumsily across his chest. At least he could DO that now, even if it lacked the intimidating quality it should have had. "And why should this bother you?" he retorted.

"It puts ye in a nasty mood, for one thing," she snapped before she thought. "A'm nae sure what reason ye have for making yuirself feel worse than ye must, but tae tell the truth, A think 'tis verra stupid of ye!"

They glared at each other for at least half a minute. "Noo, what are ye doing with the pills? A willnae force ye tae take them, but this is ridiculous."

"Your pathetic efforts at treatment are 'ridiculous'!" Stryfe retorted. He gritted his teeth briefly, partly in anger but more than half in an attempt to persuade his sinuses that he was NOT going to sneeze again. Every now and then it actually worked.

It didn't go unnoticed. She found herself crossing her own arms, a sure sign of closing herself off but she didn't care enough to change position. "Can ye even go an hour without sneezing?" she asked challengingly.

He clenched his jaw. The answer was no; she knew that perfectly well. And she suspected that he didn't dare open his mouth because he'd simply prove her point. Seconds ticked by and tears began to collect, just slightly, at the corners of his eyes. He squinted. And finally gave up and released the sneeze, followed by its three companions and then a stream of curses with a sound only slightly off some of Cable's more vicious ones.

Moira just nodded, keeping her position. "A thought so," she nearly crowed. "Take the pills, ye stupid Sassenach!" It occurred to her that was really even more appropriate than calling an American the same name, and his confusion quickly fell to annoyance. She glared. "Well? If yuir gonnae swear at me in another language, A'll repay ye in kind!"

That set him to silently glowering, and Moira removed her glasses and heaved a surprisingly large sigh for her small frame. "Look," she finally softened her tone, "the pills will nae do ye harm, that I promise ye. And A've never lied tae ye yet, so can ye take me oath for what it is, an' take the bloody pills?"

Stryfe started to bring a hand up, as if to wipe at his eyes, but dropped it. "No," he said sullenly. "I have no reason to think I can trust you, and if you ARE trying to be helpful you're obviously too incompetent to do any good!"

She didn't bristle. She was a doctor, she had expected this sort of behavior from him. Treat him as you would a child. "How would ye know?" she retorted. "If yuir nae gonnae accept the treatment, then it won't work. It's nae doing good sitting in that cup, Stryfe. Ye've got to ingest it." She allowed herself to be condescending. "A ken it may be a new concept for ye...."

Stryfe made a choked sound, not quite a cough. "Do NOT talk down to me, woman! If you can't think of anything better than these primitive trial-and-error methods--" He broke off with another sneeze, then unfolded his arms after a moment to fumble at the tissue box.

He had difficulty in grabbing things, still -- he hadn't yet managed to hold the cup, and still had to fumble with the straw. He had progressed into making very loose fists -- they simply weren't tight enough to hold anything. It wasn't upsetting yet -- fine motor control would come back as the swelling faded more -- but she worried about the state of his lower back, where the swelling was decreasing more slowly, and his feet, where he had little to no sensation at all.

It really would be a shame if he never regained fine enough control to, say, type or use a pen. Since he was accepting solid food these days, she could tell by his eyes and body carriage that it irked him not to be able to wield the eating utensils himself. He disliked being fed like a child, now, or bathed like one, though he wasn't nearly limber enough to be up to the tasks himself, and he'd shown more than a little disgust upon the discovery of the catheter -- she wasn't sure how the doctors of his time had managed to deal with the usual bodily functions, but apparently not as she was.

He struggled, freeing the tissue from the box but unable to hold it to his own nose, and she finally uncrossed her arms, coming over to hold it and wipe his nose. "Stryfe, A ken that medicine is more advanced from yer home time -- if it werenae, A'd be shocked an' disappointed A'd nae made a lasting impression." She meant it as a joke, but his eyes glared at her. "But A'm doing the verra best A ken, and yuir treatment here be better than any ye'd receive anywhere else in th' world. Try tae have patience until we ken what's causing yuir reaction."

He sniffled even after she pulled the soft kleenex away, defying another sneeze. "Have you even looked," he grated, and stopped to swallow, his whole face contorting with the effort it took. "Oath, there is a limited number of things I'm exposed to -- I don't see how it's possible, even taking into account your intelligence, not to find it!"

She tossed the tissue into the trashcan, trying very hard not to throw it at him, instead. "When ye think ye ken what it is, feel free to let me in on it," she simply murmured, almost smiling. It didn't matter who figured it out, but that the offending substance was removed.

Rahne finished her sorting. She could hear them arguing from the other room, but steeled herself to come in anyway.

Stryfe grimaced. "I'm not exactly in any condition to be running the tests, now AM I?" he snarled bitterly.

Moira slapped her hand down on the bedrail. "Nae, ye hae that right! And ye willnae be anytime soon unless ye turn some of yuir attention tae cooperating with the treatment A can offer instead of trying tae thwart me at every turn! Are ye trying not tae get well?"

"Don't put it off on me! You're the one who's too primitively incompetent to do any good!"

Rahne tried to ignore the scents of anger from both the others, noticing almost in passing that Stryfe's scent carried only a thread of fear, mostly annoyance and obstinacy. Neither seemed to notice her. She retrieved the tongue depressor and began washing it, the splashing of the stream of water playing over Moira's voice.

"Oh, A like that, A do, when ye willnae accept the treatment in the first place! If ye donnae take a medicine it's most certainly nae going to help."

"And can't do any harm either!" He muttered something else, something unintelligible -- or more likely in another language -- that was almost certainly insulting. Rahne gritted her teeth and watched them in her peripheral vision.

Moira leaned over him, eyes hard. "A cannae do ye much more harm than ye managed tae do yuirself!" she snapped. Stryfe looked almost... stricken. He didn't speak again as Moira turned and walked out, shoes clicking softly on the floor.

* * * * * * *

Rahne tried to catch Moira's eye as she briskly crossed the room to the door, but the woman was staring quite resolutely ahead and didn't seem to notice her inquiring look. She listened to Moira tap-tap her way down the hall, her chest slightly constricted with disappointment, and heard one of the lab doors close softly.

She put the tongue depressor down softly after she finished drying it, then just stood there, heels of her hands pressed against the upper edge of the countertop, eyes staring at it without actually seeing it. This... this man who had caused her so much pain already was now verbally attacking her skill as a doctor? He might as well actually hit her, it would have hurt her less! She'd seen Moira doing the same thing, cursing herself as an experiment that had taken months had to be scrapped because she'd made a slight error and the sample had become contaminated.

And while she could do little about Moira berating herself, she could certainly do something about this.

Steeling herself, she ran warm water from the tap, filling a stone basin. It had been about four days, and his hair was filthy again, oily with sweat. She was also supposed to change his sheets today, but she somehow doubted Moira would be up for hauling the man to the anti-grav chamber this afternoon, so she'd have to wait until tomorrow.

Once it was reasonably full, she walked out of the room, towards the linen closet on this level, taking three clean white towels and tucking them under her arm as the detergent caught her eye again. It was the same brand and type as upstairs, unscented, it couldn't possibly be causing it... yet she lifted it. Nearly full, so they'd just recently had to get another one out of storage. Speaking of which, she needed to remind Moira to call the pilot about supplies - there was a lengthy list of things they required, now that they had another mouth to feed, as well as the medical supplies he was consuming, in the form of IV solutions, plastic syringes, etc.

Still staring at the detergent, she gently closed the door. Maybe comparing the labels would...? But no, it would have said "New, Improved!" if they'd changed the content. Sighing again, she walked back into Stryfe's room, pulling one of the towels out from under her arm and approaching him.

He hadn't spoken a word since Moira had snapped and left, but his eyes were open and studying the ceiling intently. He was awake all the day, now, and she could smell pain on him much more often, as he started moving on his own, as Moira forced him through exercises such as sitting up, trying to move his legs, lifting his arms, and very gentle neck exercises.

As far as she could tell from what Moira murmured at the dinner table - when she managed to make the woman sit at the dinner table - the damage was less at the top of his spine and worse at the bottom, despite the original area of trauma. So while he could cross his arms, however clumsily, he probably couldn't stand yet - and she understood that it must be frustrating.

That didn't give him the right to take it out on the woman that was the only reason he was still alive.

He didn't react much when she picked his head up, taking the pillow and placing the towel beneath his neck. This was the fourth time she'd had to do this for him - maybe the last, if he continued to improve - and he hadn't yet protested it. She said nothing as she laid out the second towel, then put the basin beneath his head and began to wet his hair.

He really wasn't that old, she reflected moodily, wetting the more gray than white hair. He'd had gray hair the entire time he'd been in this century, as had Cable, and she knew them to be around the same age. Which was anywhere from late forties to early sixties; probably fair, therefore, to put him around 55 years old.

Funny, that, when he was acting like he was five.

"Ye had no right tae speak tae her like that," she said softly, wetting every last inch of his lengthening hair before walking over to the counter to fetch the shampoo. By the time she'd turned back around, he'd closed his eyes. She sighed audibly and came back over.

"A ken yuir not ignoring me," she continued, but his very lack of visible interest was taking the strength from her voice. The simple recollection of Moira's set expression as she'd left the room brought it back, fuller than before.

"Has it occurred tae ye that she's the only thing standing between you and a cell?" She poured the liquid soap into her hands, rubbing them together and releasing the relaxing scent of lavender, breathing of it before massaging it into his hair. Despite its filth, once they'd gotten the grime and blood from it and washed it a few times, her gentle care had revealed it to be thick, soft, and healthy. Was there something about telepathy that affected hair? After all, Charles was bald, all three of the Summers' sons had grey hair --even Nate Grey's was streaked with white.

She shooed her mind back to the subject at hand. Threatening wasn't what she intended, but his disrespect and rude behavior toward Moira was going to be addressed, today, now. And changed.

"She doesnae want to harm ye, ye daft man. Why are ye so set on hurting her?"

She didn't expect an answer, and didn't get one, just worked her fingers along his scalp, where the sweat originated, and worked in a careful, clockwise motion around his head. He never moved, neither helping nor hindering her when she lifted his head slightly to get the hair on the back. And nearly dropped it when he spoke.

"Did I?" His voice was cold, but not strongly so, just... empty. "I hadn't noticed."

She did drop his head, glaring into eyes that were glaring right back. "How dare ye say that," she half-cried, quieting with effort, knowing that if she attracted too much attention, Moira would look in on the camera, and she would rather her mum didn't ever know the conversation had taken place. "Yuir nae so stupid as tae actually --"

"Oh, stop whining," he said irritably, closing his eyes again to her heated stare. But they opened again, consideringly. "You wouldn't happen to know why she's standing between me and a cell, would you?"

The question caught her off-guard, and she hesitated before continuing her shampooing. He didn't close his eyes, but he was unable to crane his head far enough back to actually stare at her, so he transferred a somehow... guarded... look to the ceiling. It was a good thing he didn't have any sort of optic-based power, she thought to herself. And then shook her head.

"She doesnae want tae see ye in a prison. I dunnae ken fur th' life of me why, but she doesnae." Rahne began to rinse his hair, laying his head back, and in the process letting him look at her again, which he did. It had to be slightly dizzying, upside down, but if he found it so, he didn't say anything.

He didn't say anything at all, and his sudden silence startled her as much as his speaking had. She continued rinsing the soap from his hair, just as gently, and minutes passed in complete silence. He sneezed suddenly, the noise and his motion making her leap back, still getting splashed, and he fell back against the towel with an almost inaudible moan. She brushed the drops of water from her front, and heard him sniffle, trying to combat the next one.

Rahne hesitated, then gently laid his head in the basin and moved to dry her hands on her slacks, going around him towards the Kleenex box. His hand closed on her upper arm surprisingly strongly, and she nearly yelped, leaping away and breaking his grip much more easily than the initial touch had indicated.

She bit off her angry words at his look, somewhere between angry and curious. "But why." His voice was rougher than before, probably due to the sneeze, and anger looked out of place on a face that swollen. He allowed his arm to drop, apparently satisfied in making her jump, and just stared at her.

"Why what? Can ye not conceive of the concept of someone wanting tae help ye just because it's the right thing tae do?!" She tried to lower her voice, not accomplishing it as she continued hotly, "A cannae even say fur certain that it is th' right thing tae do with ye! All ye've brooght tae th' people A ken is suffering an' misery! No one would blame her fur lettin' ye rot yuir life away in that bed, but she's trying tae help ye! The only thing she wants in return is the satisfaction of knowing she helped ye, and you're managing tae take even that away from her!" She turned swiftly, snatching a Kleenex from the box with far more force than was necessary, and softened her gaze as the corrugated mouth of the cardboard box frowned at her.

She also managed to soften her voice, as she looked back into his still-guarded, storm-gray eyes. Well, one, at any rate. "For once, can ye nae ask yuirself why not?"

His look became considering, again. "You hate me," he said, surprisingly softly, considering the condition of his throat. "Why? Because of the way I treat her?" At her silence, his mouth twitched into something that might have been a wry grin. "Or is it because of Legacy?"

She just glared at him, then came over and wiped his nose a great deal more gently than she would have liked. His eyes never left her, unsettling her, and she broke off the contact, throwing away the Kleenex and going back to rinse the last of the shampoo from his hair. She didn't hate him, only yesterday she wouldn't have hesitated to tell him that... but today she was awfully close to active dislike. Was it that simple, then? What about the pain he'd caused Cable? The X-Men? The destruction the MLF had wrought... or was it as simple as Legacy?

Then again, how simple was it, really? The pain Moira felt every time someone else died of Legacy as she worked for the cure, the constant self-reprimand, the long nights working herself to exhaustion, the locking herself away and letting no one stay with her, comfort her -- hardly simple. And how could he sit there, knowing that, and attack her as he had?

Or did he know? Did he realize how much his words had hurt? Did he really realize that his words had struck her, or did he believe that because it didn't show on her face, they really hadn't stung?

He stared up at her, and when she refused to look at him, he spoke again. "I didn't give it to her, you know."

She met his eyes again, glaring down on him, only something in his eyes preventing her from throwing the basin of water in his face. Hadn't given her Legacy! -- maybe he hadn't given an injection, but he had most certainly introduced it -- surely he wasn't blaming Essex for the damage his virus had caused?

Rahne just glared at him, wanting him to laugh, to make it simply another one of the barbs he'd thrown at Moira, to make it obvious that he was only trying to upset her. He didn't, didn't make another sound, just looked at her.

And she had no idea what to say.

His expression shifted slightly at her silence, and he closed his eyes after a moment, allowing his features to slide into that neutral mask once more, closing the conversation as easily as Moira had. Even though he couldn't stand, he'd left.

Neither spoke as she withdrew the basin, toweled his hair dry, and replaced the pillowcase before placing the pillow beneath his head. She nearly asked him what he meant half a dozen times, but that absolutely blank look on his face, so much like the expression on his face for the first two weeks, stopped her every time.

She washed the basin carefully and replaced it, taking the towels out of his room, hesitating only at the door, for a second, before closing it softly. She didn't stop until she was upstairs.

* * * * * * *