Chapter Two: Insomniac
He felt a light, soft pressure on his forehead, like a kiss really, and his eyes snapped open.
Annie.
She smiled down at him, the glow of the fluorescent lamp illuminated her head so that she appeared to be a dark-haired angel.
But sacre mere… his head. "Annie…"
She put a hand on his forehead, smoothed his hair back. "I'm glad you're awake Jean-Paul. How do you feel?"
Slowly, he pushed himself up to sitting. He was in the infirmary, stripped down to his boxer-briefs, and under a linen sheet. He let it fall to his lap as he put a hand to his temple, rubbing at it with great agitation. "As if I've been hit by a truck. Or a hundred."
He could hear the smile in her voice, "You drank too much. And then that mutant - that woman - she did something to you. Do you remember?"
A moment's thought.
Jeanne-Marie!
His heart was in his throat again. He could remember how she felt, in his arms. How cold.
No. No, that hadn't happened. It had… so long ago. But not like that. He shook his head, trying to emerge from the dream-confusion. "She touched me, I know that. Then… nothing. I had… dreams."
The nurse cocked her head at him, "Dreams?"
"It's nothing," he waved one hand at her, not wishing to talk about it. Some dreams, nightmares, he did not need to relive. "How long was I out?"
"An hour or so. Kurt is with the other woman, the bartender. He said you might be interested in joining him there with her?"
"She's alright?"
"She's fine, Jean-Paul." A pause here, where she considered him very seriously for a moment. "You, on the other hand, actually look as if you've been hit by a truck. Maybe you should stay here until Hank—"
"I'm fine," he interrupted, but gently. He appreciated her concern. She was a friend, one of the few he had these days. But he did not want to talk about the dream, or what had happened. It just felt too… real.
He swung his legs, slowly over the side of the bed, and slid off the table, unconcerned about his state of undress. "Don't worry about me, It's probably just the beer. Thank you for taking care of me," he took one of her small hands in his and squeezed it gently before proceeding to a chair in a nearby corner, where he saw his clothes.
He knew she wasn't buying it. But he also knew that she respected him enough not to plague him with questions. He heard her busying herself as he put his clothes on, and then turned to face her. Her back was to him, she was fiddling with some electronic monstrosity or another on the counter. "You say she's with Kurt?"
She nodded, "Yes. And you'll have to see Hank, as soon as he gets back."
"What happened to… her?" His breath caught in his throat, thinking of her. He'd almost called her by a name. But, whatever it was, it was gone now.
Where the hell had that come from?
Annie turned now, examining him closely, up and down. "She got away, Jean-Paul."
She got away. From Nightcrawler, Wolverine, and Iceman.
She got away.
He was still not entirely sober. And probably would not be for some time, really. He stopped for a cup of coffee in the kitchen, finding it blessedly empty, and then proceeded to find his partners in crime. His eye caught the glow of a clock, sitting on one of the counters, before he slipped back into the hallway. Five AM.
How foolish of them. Acting like children, like boys in college. What had they been thinking?
Of course… if they hadn't that redhead would be dead. Not sitting behind this door, talking to Kurt in hushed tones.
Sighing, he knocked lightly and turned the doorknob. What he needed was a good sleep, really. He'd feel much better, much less confused, after a good night's sleep.
The moment he stepped inside, he saw the girl stand, run to him, and promptly throw herself at him.
Shocked out of his dream-haze, trying not to spill hot coffee on her, he tenuously put one arm around her and patted her on the back. He lifted his gaze to his teammate, who was sitting on a chair, back in his natural blue state, covering his mouth. But his yellow demon eyes were laughing, and his shoulders were shaking just enough.
"Thank you so much, Northstar!" She gushed from his chest, her face buried in his sweater. "If you hadn't been there…"
"Then Nightcrawler would have taken care of it," he finished, uncertain how to disentangle himself from her without being rude. But really… what was he supposed to do with this?
"Jean-Paul Beaubier, meet Bridget Bain. Bridget, here is your knight in shining armor, in the flesh," Kurt managed to stop laughing and compose himself long enough to speak.
Northstar shot him an icy glare, followed immediately by a pleading look.
"Nice to see you up and about, mein Freund." Was the only word from Kurt, who was obviously enjoying the scene.
"Yes… nice to be up and about. Please, petite¸ it is ok now. Are you alright?" He used his questions as an excuse to release himself from her arms, and turned her face up with his unoccupied hand to look at her.
She was, indeed, beautiful. And young, to be sure. Grey-green eyes and freckles splashed over her white cheeks and forehead generously. Her hair was a wreck. Her eyes puffy, and somewhat bloodshot. But still, she was a pretty girl.
"I'm ok," she sniffed.
"Just a little frightened," Nightcrawler smiled, and Jean-Paul was amazed at how gentle a fanged smile could be. "I was just going to show her to a room for the night. We've decided its best if she stays with us, until Wolverine and Iceman are back from the search."
"They're still out there?" Annie hadn't told him that.
He nodded, as the girl finally let go of him once and for all, and stood back, looking somewhat embarrassed.
He looked back at her, suddenly feeling like a cad for wanting to get rid of her so quickly. The girl had just had her life threatened. It may be a daily business for an X-Man, but certainly not for her. "Do you need anything? Are you hungry? A cup of tea?"
She smiled now, though it still seemed rather sad on her tear-stained face. "No, I'm ok. Kurt took care of me," and she shot her smile over in his direction now.
He was on his feet, and executed a particularly cavalier bow in her direction. "Let's get you into bed then, and I will finish up with Northstar, nein?"
Nodding, she followed him out the door. "Ok. I am awfully tired…"
Nightcrawler winked as he passed Jean-Paul, and took the girl's arm. He continued to talk to her, soothingly, in a low voice, as he led her to a spare room.
Maya. Apparently, the mystery mutant's name was Maya.
He'd known that. Somehow. And that fact wasn't helping him get to sleep.
Restless, he shifted in his bed, rolled over onto his stomach. He mostly slept on his stomach anyhow, always had, but he'd tried that for about a half hour already and it wasn't working. But then, neither had his side. Or his back.
He simply could not fall asleep.
Maya Patel, in fact. A recent graduate of the University, and leader of a feminist group known as Deviyaa. Nightcrawler had filled him in on the details after putting the girl away in her room for the night, and they were also not helping him sleep. It seemed that their little Bridget had been applying for membership to the feminist group, and was rejected in the end. For no good reason, according to the girl. But not before she overheard something that quickly made her realize that she would not want to be a part of such an organization in the first place.
He sighed heavily, buried his face in the down pillow. It was simply too light out, perhaps. And he'd had that damned cup of coffee. That certainly wasn't helping. But sweet Jesus, his body ached from being tired.
Ah, but the girls. They were planning, according to Bridget, to pull a rather large heist. To kidnap the editor of a certain campus newspaper, who had written a rather too exposing editorial on their activities. Kurt had not elaborated on what those were, and Jean-Paul was not entirely certain that he, or Bridget, for that matter, really knew. But, clearly, it was some sort of college politics nonsense.
However, the women of Deviyaa seemed to take themselves quite seriously. Bridget, though she had once wanted to be a part of their activities, took her newfound information to the police. They had foiled the girls' plans, apparently, and Bridget had begun receiving death threats via email. She'd informed the police of this, and moved back in with her parents, but she refused to stop her life. Her job at the bar was paying her rent and fees, she was in school on a scholarship, and she had to keep moving forward.
So she went to work.
And the rest, as they said, was history.
Ridiculous, he thought, as he rolled onto his side fitfully, now tangled up in his sheets and irrationally annoyed by the sunlight that filtered through his heavy curtains. Little kids, playing games. Some girl has a mutant power to knock people out with a touch, she thinks she has a mission, she wipes out anyone in her way. Small time villains with a small time goal. She should never have gotten away.
But she did.
Bobby had returned as he and Kurt were discussing, looking like death warmed, or perhaps, in his case, frozen over. Wolverine had yet to return to the mansion.
Northstar had a feeling he would not until he was certain she was long gone, or he brought her back with him.
He squeezed his eyes shut against the light, making a noise of supreme irritation somewhere deep in his throat. It was Saturday. He could sleep all day, if need be.
But, in the dark behind his eyelids, he knew the real reason why he couldn't rest. Something was waiting for him there.
He could still feel her in his arms. Jeanne-Marie, dying. He could feel the wetness on his face, hear his voice as he begged.
No. It hadn't happened that way.
Jean-Paul flipped onto his back, kicking at the sheets until they were in a ball at his feet, and stared at the ceiling unflinchingly.
Perhaps he would be able to sleep if he spent some time in the Danger Room. Or with some kind of work out.
Or anything that would make him forget that smile. Those eyes.
They were not Jeanne-Marie's eyes.
"You look like hell," Paige furrowed her brow at him, over the top of his newspaper.
He put the page down and ran a hand through his hair. He hadn't bothered to blow dry it after his post-workout shower. "Thank you for that observation."
"Sorry, Jean-Paul. You're just always so… together," she shrugged, sitting across from him now with a plate of chicken salad sandwich and potato chips. "You boys drink a little too much last night?"
He sighed at her, and immediately wished he hadn't. Good god, he hated sighing. "No. We saved a young bartender from being shot in the head by a crazed feminist mutant, actually."
Paige's eyebrows lifted. "Really!" She commented around a mouth full of potato chips, "Sounds brilliant."
"Oh yes, brilliant," he snapped. "And then the mutant touched me, knocked me out for a good hour, and I've not been able to sleep since."
She swallowed, eyebrows still arched dangerously high. "So what's your excuse for the foul temper every other day?"
He pushed the newspaper at her and grabbed his cup of coffee, standing to go. "Foul company." And with that, he turned his back on her and started toward the door.
"Oh, come on Northstar, I'm just joking!" she called after him, in a highly amused voice.
He, however, was less than amused.
The door was open, when he passed by, and he heard voices. He glanced in, casually, and saw her sitting on the bed, nodding at something a man on the other side of the room was telling her.
It was only a moment before he realized that the voice belonged to Bobby Drake.
Of course. God forbid a woman should be in the house for more than an hour without being pursued by Iceman!
No. That was unfair. Not to mention horribly bitter.
But god, he really was tired.
"Northstar!" She had caught sight of him and waved him in.
Too tired, apparently. Wasn't moving very well.
But he answered her summons and came in to lean on the doorframe, sipping at his coffee. Bobby was sitting against the far wall, knees pulled up to his chest like a small child, looking rather pleased with himself. She was on the bed, smiling up at him.
"I was just passing by," he said, "thought I'd see if you were doing well."
"Thanks, Bobby got me some lunch and I'm ok now," she answered, her glance darting over to the curled up X-Man on her floor.
"What's up, Jean-Paul?" he waved.
Northstar nodded, "Bobby. Good, well if you need anything—"
"Wait," she stopped him and took a deep breath, then glanced over at Bobby quickly. "I um… I wanted to apologize to you for… how I acted last night."
Confused, he cocked his head at her. "How you acted?"
"Yeah, clinging to you and Kurt like that," she was blushing now, and looking down at her feet. "I swear, I'm never like that. I was just…"
"Scared," he finished, understanding now. She must be a shy girl, by nature. Shy, but from what Kurt had told him of her history, fiercely independent. Not the sort of girl liked to depend on others to solve her problems, perhaps. "Don't think about it, please. There's no shame in needing a little comfort after someone's held a gun to your head."
Well, that had come out rather harsher than he'd meant…
But she nodded, and managed to look back up at him again. "I'm ok."
It seemed, for a moment, as if she was trying to convince herself, more than him.
"Yes," he told her, "you are."
"And Logan's still out there, looking for that Maya chick," Bobby seemed unable to contain himself further. "We're going to get her, it's only a matter of time before she uses her powers again, and the Professor will find her."
Ah, the Professor. And Hank.
Kurt had intervened on his behalf in the wee hours of the morning, but there would be no more putting it off now that he'd been seen up and about the house. He'd have to go and be poked, prodded, and talked at.
So. Tired.
Jean-Paul stood upright once again, "Speaking of whom, I believe I'm late for a chat with Monsieur Xavier."
"Later," Bobby waved, grinning at him.
The girl smiled at him one last time, and he caught a flash of that sadness in it again.
As he wandered toward the library, he thought what a shame it was, that the girl had been forced to see that kind of ugliness. She would never be the same.
She'd be fine, of course. She was no girl, he reminded himself, but an intelligent, competent, capable young woman. She'd proven that to him just now, with her unnecessary apologies. Hell, he half thought he ought to be apologizing for being so unprepared and… un-heroic, in his treatment of her.
Sometimes, he was truly astounded by his own tendency toward heartlessness. It was sad, really.
He did not have a fear of needles. But he wasn't particularly fond of them either.
"Are you experiencing any side effects, Jean-Paul?" The large, furry Henry McCoy was asking him, as he watched his own blood shooting into the tube, as if of its own free will.
"No," he answered quickly, annoyed with the entire process. But then, he thought for a moment, "I haven't been able to sleep. But we were drinking. A lot."
"Ah yes," Hank rumbled, with a toothy grin, "so I heard! A shame I had to miss the grand event. Perhaps an MRI—"
Now that, he did not think he could handle. "I don't think it's necessary," he was quick to point out, and was sorry he'd brought it up. He had better things to do than lay on a metal plate while magnets scanned his brain. No, thank you, not today.
Hank nodded, "I must say, you appear to be in perfect health, other than the dark circles forming under your eyes, and a bit of exhaustion." He slid the needle out of Jean-Paul's arm now, and turned his back, busying himself with putting the needle into the biohazard bin and preparing his blood for the centrifuge. "If the insomnia continues, please let me know. We do not understand the power of the mutant who touched you, and I fear she may have caused some sort of psychological rift that is keeping you from sleep."
He gave a quick snort, pressing gauze to the inside of his elbow now, "Her power knocked me out, Henri. I hardly think that insomnia would be a side effect of a power that, by nature, puts her victim to sleep."
"Nevertheless," he insisted with another huge smile, coming back to the table with a band-aid in hand, "We might at least be able to give you something to help you sleep. I would appreciate it if you would keep me apprised of the situation?"
Trying not to sigh, Northstar nodded, "Of course."
He held up the bandage in a large blue paw, "are you healed, or would you like a Flintstones band-aid?"
Jean-Paul raised an already upswept eyebrow, "I'm sure I'm fine."
Xavier had taken one look at him, and told him to get to sleep.
But he didn't want to close his eyes. In fact… he was feeling a little… scared about closing his eyes. Evening was coming on now, and he sat in the library, in a large, rather soft chair. He had his paper, and a cup of tea. Perhaps he could relax now.
Dieu, but his body ached. His shoulders had knots in them, his legs protested now and then when he tried to make them do his bidding. It wasn't horrible, or unbearable. His muscles were just so… tired. Normally, he had uncanny endurance. But the alcohol had slowed him down, and he'd not had a chance to recover from it, so it felt like he'd been awake for 48 hours instead of the actual 36 he'd been through.
Twelve hours makes quite a difference, when you're tired.
So he flipped to the business section, took a sip of tea, and started to read.
And before he knew it, his eyes closed on their own.