Part 3: Beautiful
beauty, she poisons unfaithful all, stifled, her touch is leprous and pale, the less she gives, the more you need her, no thoughts to forget when we were children
-she is suffering
Calvasse… not again.
Jean-Paul stood, frozen, only for a split second. Weighing, judging. The boy's eyes—sincere, glowing. Fearless. The point of the flashing blade sunk into his scarred forearm. A dark pool welled up, a drop slid, viscous, shining dark in the moonlight, over the mutilated skin and splashed onto the hard packed ground. All he had to do was drag the blade a few inches away from him, and he would open up that crucial vein, sever his artery.
S'il vous plait… not again.
"Stop, please," he said quietly, slowly. Heart in his throat.
Thousands of teenagers a day threatened to do what this boy was threatening. A cry for help, they called it, the "experts."
But he could see this boy's—no, this young man's—eyes. He was not afraid. Death would be better than returning to that world, the world of those other children, of people who could not understand.
"I would not ask you to return to them. I understand."
The young man's scarred face twisted up. Hate. Anger. But still not a trace of fear. "How could you understand? Did you spend your childhood being tormented for being a geek? When your mutation started to show, did it leave you disfigured? Did the way you look brand you, let everyone know what a freak you are? Did you grow up in East Butt-Fuck West Virginia, where the color of your skin can still change what people think about you, let alone being a mutant?!" He was yelling by the end, hand shaking as it held the knife. Another drop of blood hit the earth.
He was Northstar, the superhero.
And once again, it wouldn't help him.
"My problems are not the same as yours, perhaps. But that does not mean I can't understand." If only his heart would return to his chest, get the hell out of his throat. That might make this easier. So much easier.
Rick, Bullet Time, remained silent. But he made no move to take the knife from his arm. He just stood there, hateful. Shaking. Breathing.
"Do you have a family, Rick?"
He nodded, quickly.
"I had a family. Twice. And I lost them both, when I was too young to know better. And then, the man who took me in, raised me… I watched him murdered. I have a sister, whom I love. If I saw her today, I would not be surprised if she tried to kill me." The blackness. The hole in his chest. Threatening. Good god, but it hurt. "What about friends? Jake, he is your friend?"
Again, he nodded.
"You are lucky. I have lived in a house for months now, with other mutants. Do you know, until today, I would not have counted one of them among my friends?"
"Sound like a bunch of dickheads," the youth was calming down now, but the pressure on the knife did not let up.
"Non. In fact, I am the one who is… difficult. What do you want to do Rick? With your life? With your gifts?"
Silence. He just stared. Intense.
"I am a teacher, at a school for young mutants. This, with the spandex and the flight goggles, it's not my day job. And every day, I know that the sideways glances I get, the whispers I hear behind me in the hall, are all because of one little difference. We are all mutants there, yes. But I am different, because I am gay. My teammates shy away from my touch, my enemies have one more reason to hate me. And believe me, they take every reason they can get. The world would rather sweep people like me, different in so many ways from what it finds "acceptable," under the carpet and forget that we exist."
Deep breath.
He hadn't realized, until that moment, how much it still bothered him. He was Jean-Paul Beaubier. Proud. Fearless.
And, apparently, pissed off.
"But I don't run from it," he continued now. "I don't run from my powers, my past, or who I am. I face them down, make them mine. And all I'm offering you here, when I ask you to come with me, is the chance to do the same."
A pause, as the two mutants simply looked at each other. One bald, scarred, burnt, and bleeding. Clothes torn and ragged from use of his powers. Eyes burning and unafraid. The other strong, arrogant, beautiful and sharp. Wearing a costume that couldn't help him rescue his charge this time. A costume that sometimes didn't fit so well.
"What do you teach?" Rick asked, suddenly dropping both hands to his sides.
Northstar realized with a bit of a start that he had been holding his breath. "Business. Economics."
"To mutants?"
"Mutants are just people. We have to make a living, oui?"
"Swear to me that I don't have to go back."
"I swear," he nodded solemnly, swearing to himself that he would make it so, no matter what. "You can come with us, if you like. We'll have to talk to your parents—"
"They'll be glad. They don't… blame me for what I am."
A sound above them now, familiar. He looked down at his watch, saw it blinking yellow. He should have noticed before. "I believe our ride is here," he looked up, through the clear circle between the treetops, showing the night sky.
A small clattering as the butterfly knife fell to the ground.
Jean-Paul looked back at the young man now, and saw that he was covering his face. Broad shoulders shook a little, a shadowed figure in the moonlight. Scars, burns ripped across the landscape of his hands, his arms. Laughing or crying, it was hard to say. Either way, it would mean the same thing.
The X-Man fought an urge to put an arm around the younger man. It would only hurt him more, after all.
But he had a feeling that, if not for that fact, the young mutant would not shy away from his touch.
"They are not bad children," Kurt was perched in a chair in the Professor's office now, explaining what had happened. "They simply made a bad decision."
"Still," Xavier shook his head, with his typical infuriating calmness, "they could be dangerous. Holding a group of teenagers hostage, assaulting them. It's hardly the way to make a point. It shows a level of instability—"
"Excusez-moi, Professor, but have you not spent your life working with children?" Northstar could listen to this no more. He'd been pacing back and forth like a caged tiger before the window, utterly incensed. Xavier's decision to treat the boys as if they were no more than common criminals was, simply, unacceptable. "You know better than most how cruel they can be. It never would have happened if someone in that ridiculous little town had made an effort to stop what was happening in that school. Both boys were beaten repeatedly for nothing, for watching Star Trek, since they were ten years old. And then they, already outcasts, develop mutant powers. They are exposed, called names, tortured. Who can blame them?"
Maddening. The Professor only raised an eyebrow. "I understand that you sympathize with them, Northstar, and I appreciate that you're willing to be so personally involved. I do not suggest that we shouldn't offer them all the help we can. Indeed, I'm glad they're here, and feel confident that we can help. But their violent pasts—"
"What about my past?" He burst in again. "The FLQ? Cell Combatterre? Does it make me a dangerous man?" Glad that he was willing to be personally involved! What utter crap!
"You were pardoned by the Canadian government," Xavier reminded him, unnecessarily, eyebrow still arched. "You were not involved in any violent activities. In fact, you saved—"
"I remember what I did," he interrupted frostily.
"I believe the point Jean-Paul wishes to make ," Kurt cut into the conversation, and, blessedly, the tension, "is that extreme unfairness and oppression can drive otherwise perfectly rational people to extreme actions, with time."
Silently, Jean-Paul thanked his teammate. But his eyes never left Xavier's. "It should not be such an alien concept to you, after all."
A pause. Then, slowly, the Professor nodded. "I will keep a close eye on empathic activity. Kurt, you may remove the boy's inhibitor. Northstar, take the other boy to Henry in the morning, for analysis. Annie will take care of his burns tonight."
"I will see that he's moved out of the holding cell."
"That will be all," was the Professor's only answer. "Good night, and good work."
"A moment, Monsieur Beaubier?"
If it had been anyone else… he would have killed them.
But seeing that it was Kurt, he turned and stopped his progress toward the sweet sanctuary of his room. "Oui?"
"Forgive me. I know it has been a long day for both of us, but…" He didn't need to finish the sentence. It was obvious from the look on his face. No swashbuckler there tonight.
"Non, forgive me. I lost my temper with the Professor." He was not sorry for what he'd said to Xavier, but he was sorry that Kurt had been forced to get in the middle of it. "I can count myself lucky that you were there to intervene, with reason. I shouldn't be surprised, the Professor must look after his interests, of course," He couldn't hold back the sarcasm now. But he didn't care.
Kurt, apparently, was not bothered either. "What happened? With the boy, I mean?"
They had not had a chance to speak without the boys there, except for the brief trip from the infirmary to the Professor's office. "He threatened to kill himself if I tried to bring him back to the warehouse. Or anywhere near the town, for that matter." His voice sounded flat, cold. Even inside his head.
Kurt nodded, "I see. And you…?"
"I'm… well," he sighed, feeling the tension in his body, the way his eyes were drooping. Long day indeed. "I've just… I've not had the best luck with children, in my life. He made me think."
"You were right to stand up to the Professor. It showed great integrity. But, yes, I see what you mean. Too much thought…," the other man trailed off, leaving it open.
But Northstar knew where he was going. He'd heard him say it only hours ago, before the whole debacle. "Indeed."
He wanted to say more, once again. But he could not.
With a slight smile, Nightcrawler placed a hand on his teammate's shoulder, and steered him down the hallway again. "The life of a superhero, nein?"
Jean-Paul had his doubts.
But they did not keep him awake long.