what tongueless ghost of sin crept through my curtains?
sailing on a sea of sweat on a stormy night
i think he don't got a name but I can't be certain
and in me he starts to confide

that my family don't seem so familiar
and my enemies all know my name
and if you hear me tap on your window
better get on your knees and pray, panic is on the way

my pulse pumps out a beat to the ghost dancer
my eyes are dead and my throat's like a black hole
and if there's a god would he give another chance
an hour to sing for his soul

cause my family don't seem so familiar
and my enemies all know my name
and when you hear me tap on your window
you better get on your knees and pray, panic is on the way

-Oasis, "Gas Panic!"

Chapter Three: No Weakness

                "Jean-Paul! Go to bed, already, you're shaking like a leaf!"

                With a sharp intake of breath, he sat straight up, back stiff as a board, eyes wild.

                "Christ!" Paige jumped back quickly, putting a hand to her chest. "My god, are you ok?"

                 He felt sick. All he could do was blink at her. Heart in his throat, his stomach in knots.

                "Jean-Paul…?" She came closer again, this time putting a tentative hand on his forehead, as if to check him for a fever. He looked up, nervously, and caught the look in her vivid green eyes.

                You would think she'd seen a monster. She looked afraid.

                Her hand was warm on his forehead, his skin was so cold. "No fever… Listen, why don't I get you to bed, and call Annie—"

                "No," he forced himself to speak, though it seemed a near impossible task. He reached up and took her hand in his, brought it back down to the arm of the chair. "No, I'm fine. It was… it was just a dream."

                Just a dream.

                Deep breath, Beaubier. Just a dream.

                He pretended he was moving his other hand to his stomach because he was hungry. But really, he was checking. For the cut.

                He could feel the blood, sticky on his stomach. He could feel it happening, the slice of metal through his skin.

                "You look sick—," she started

                "I feel sick," he muttered, under his breath.

                "I've never seen you look sick before…"

                "You haven't known me that long."

                She seemed to consider this. "Jean-Paul, if something is wrong—,"

                "I'm ok," he tried to look like he meant it. Met her eyes, somewhat fearlessly. Thanked god that she was younger, and might have some sort of respect for him on that basis alone. Anything. God, any reason not to have to talk about this… about that. "Really, Paige, I'm ok. I was just having a dream, that's all. And I'm cold."

                Slowly, she nodded, "Yeah, you do feel really cold," she squeezed his hand, and he was a bit surprised to find it still locked on to hers.

                He let it go, trying not to do it too quickly. Be natural, goddammit. It was just… a… dream. "I just need some sleep, I think."

                God no. Not again.

                "Look," she started, settling back on her heels and looking up at him now, "I'm sorry I was picking on you earlier. You're obviously sick, I shouldn't have given you shit."

                "Forgotten and forgiven and what have you," he told her, trying not to rub at his stomach.

                "You going to bed?"

                He nodded, "Yes, of course."

                "Ok then, I'll tell the others," she stood and turned to go.

                "Paige."

                She stopped, and turned back to look over her shoulder.

                "Is Wolverine back?"

                She shook her head, and some of her blonde hair fell out of her ponytail, slid down to fall over her cheek. "No, not yet."

                He felt sick. So very, very sick.

                "Hey, why don't you let me run you a bath or something? I always do that when I'm not feeling well, and it helps me out a lot."

                In spite of the sickness, he somehow managed a smile at her. And it was genuine. "Thank you, Paige. I think I'll go do that myself."

                "Sure you'll be ok?"

                Nodding, he lied to her, looking her straight in the eye, "Of course."

                He sat in the steaming bath, scented like green and cedar, and sipped his gin.

                It felt good on his aching limbs, to have a nice soak. He'd have to do this more often. And the gin was good too, of course. Bombay Sapphire, his savior.

                If this bath, and the drink, didn't knock him out safely, nothing would.

                He was being ridiculous. So he'd had some nightmares. Big fucking bother. He'd always had nightmares, since he was a child. Who didn't?

                What he needed was to get a goddamn grip.

                But he couldn't stop himself from looking down again, looking at his stomach, under the water. Completely flawless. Utterly intact. Perfect, sculpted torso, just like it had been forever.

                No cut.

                It was just a dream.

                He'd said it to himself a million times. But he could feel it. Feel the cold stone through his shredded costume, feel the chains on his wrists. Feel that spider…

                He took another drink, and leaned his head back against the tub. No. Enough of this. He was not about to be afraid of some dream. Why his subconscious was choosing this moment to decide to dredge up all his past horrors, he did not know. But he was not about to become its slave.

                At least, he thought that was the plan.

                He sat on his bed for fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. Warm, clean, relaxed. Inside and out. He knew what he ought to do was lose the towel and go to sleep immediately. Stretch out, pull up the covers, and fall asleep.

                Only… he wasn't quite ready. He was developing something of a phobia, it seemed, of the inside of his eyelids.

                Instead, he dressed himself, and went downstairs in search of food.

                He moved quickly, too quickly to be seen, in fact, past the TV room, where Paige, Bobby, Warren, Jubilee, Bridget, and Carter were watching a movie. He knew that Paige meant well, but he did not want to be mothered at the moment. He was torn between a strange sort of warm feeling for her and her attentions, and a need to shut everyone, everything out, and remain strong.

                Something about admitting weakness to someone else made it far too real.

                But standing in front of the refrigerator, he found himself less than inclined to partake of the leftovers there. So he opened the freezer, took out Kurt's ice cream, found a spoon, and decided to see what was so brilliant about it.

                "Jean-Paul."

                For some reason, he heard a voice in his head that sounded remarkably like Jubilee's, saying "Busted!"

                Sweet Jesus, he really was tired.

                Slowly, he turned to face her. "Paige."

                She narrowed her eyes at him, and came nearer, so she could read him the riot act in a low voice, apparently. "I thought you said you were going to bed."

                He stood up a little straighter, and looked down his nose at her. He was very good at that look. "I changed my mind."

                Only slightly deterred, she shook her blonde head fitfully, "Seriously, you look like hell."

                He had to bite his tongue to keep from lashing out at her, from telling her to fuck off. And it only proved her point, really.

                Calm down, Jean-Paul. It's only Paige. She's only trying to help. "I got hungry."

                "For ice cream?"

                "I am a grown man, you realize," sharper this time.

                She felt it. She paused, and cocked her head at him. "Just don't kill yourself."

                He almost felt bad. "I did take that bath, however," he offered, as some sort of consolation. Why, he wasn't sure. But he feared he might be getting vaguely silly.

                She leaned in close to him, "Mm, yeah you smell great."

                "Thanks."

                "Come watch the movie?"

                He very nearly refused. But he thought again. What would he do? Sit here in the kitchen and try not to fall asleep in his ice cream? Go upstairs and finish the bottle of gin alone? As if his body needed the abuse…

                "Yes, I think I will."

                She grabbed a six pack of coke out of the refrigerator, which had obviously been her initial mission there, and led him into the TV room. Carton of ice cream and spoon in tow.

                The movie had been horrible. Some Eddie Murphy film that had everyone in hysterics. He tried to focus on that, and his ice cream.

                It really was quite good. Kurt had been right.

                Carter scampered away after the movie. Bridget had gone soon after, looking tired and claiming a headache. Warren had left around ten, muttering something about business to attend to (Jean-Paul tried hard not to laugh when he heard that.) Paige was soon to follow, after shooting him a few more concerned glances, which he pointedly ignored. Jubilee crawled up on the couch with Bobby, and fell asleep with her head on his shoulder. Bobby was laughing at Saturday Night Live.

                And Jean-Paul sat in the corner, on his couch, trying to find it funny.

                Only, it really wasn't very. All actors, actresses, and bad writing from the Saturday Night live crew aside, he kept having flashes from his nightmare of only hours ago. And last night, for that matter.

                At one point, he could have sworn he saw a spider crawling across Bobby's leg.

                He clenched his jaw against the fear, the weakness, and forced himself to stare at it, in nothing but the flickering light of the TV.

                Just a dream.

                "You look like shit," Bobby finally said, when the show was over. He'd been making various comments all night about the merits of the various actors on the screen, quietly so as not to wake the sleeping Jubilee. But she was obviously a heavy sleeper. He probably could have taken her up to her room on one of his ice slides, acting like a trick skateboarder, and the girl would not have moved. Jean-Paul had made it a point to answer, albeit with the shortest answers possible.

                He wanted to leave. He wanted to go to his room, to be alone.

                But alone meant he would have to think about it. Might start to panic again.

                And he could still… feel…

                "Yes, so I've been told."

                Bobby looked at Jubilee, a very sweet smile suddenly lighting up his face, probably for how angelic she looked when she was asleep. Even Jean-Paul had to admit, she really did, even in the mildly disturbing glow from the television. Slowly, he slid out from under her, laying her down on the couch, and pulled her legs up to stretch her out in what looked like a comfortable position. He took a blanket from the back of it, and laid it over her, then tucked her in carefully.

                There was something rather touching about the act, really. Something fatherly and brotherly. Something people would usually think of doing for him, not imagine him doing for someone else.

                Jean-Paul liked him best at times like these. When he wasn't playing some game, hiding behind some joke. When he wore his heart on his sleeve. He was beautiful, when he looked like that.

                "Paige is worried about you," Bobby had made his way to the other side of the room by the time he came out of his reverie, and was moving Northstar's legs forcibly off the couch to make room for himself. "And Jesus man, I am too. Why the hell aren't you in bed?"

                Oh god. Et tu…? "I wasn't tired," he made to stand up, wishing for anything else to happen, anything at all that meant he wouldn't have to re-hash this in his mind, wouldn't have to fight to keep a hold on himself.  Wouldn't have to feel so weak, feel that fear.

                Bobby grabbed at his arm, and made it clear that he didn't want him to go anywhere. "Look, I know we're not best friends. And I know Paige isn't your mother. And I know Hank isn't your dad and Annie isn't your big sister. But seriously man, what the hell are you doing?"

                He didn't quite know why, but he turned around to face the other man rather than putting up a fight and walking off. Perhaps he was too tired. Perhaps he really didn't want to. Deep breath. Not a sigh. No sighing.

                Christ, he really was getting ridiculous. "I just… felt like watching TV."

                "You never watch TV. I wouldn't even know that you'd realized it existed, if I hadn't seen your face on it about five hundred times."

                "I'm going to bed now, if that makes you feel any better."

                Bobby actually rolled his eyes now, "Yeah, Paige said you were in bed tonight already. Two hours later you come into the room with her and a half gallon of ice cream. And since when do you eat ice cream?"

                "There was hardly any left—"

                "That's not the fucking point!"

                The last statement was so emphatic that Northstar really felt a bit… dumbstruck. Bobby's face should have looked cold, as the TV-light was oddly blue. But it didn't at all. The muscles in his jaw worked, and his nostrils were slightly flared, his breathing erratic.

                Good god, he's mad at me.

                "Why are you angry?"

                "Because you're being an asshole," Bobby made an irritated gesture with his hand, flinging it up between them. "Remember the other night, I was saying we need to be closer, we need to be friends, all of us? I seem to remember you nodding your head about that, Monsieur Beaubier."

                His accent was horrible. In a charming, American sort of way. Which, of course, would not have been charming a year ago. Not at all. "Yes, I remember."

                "So this is me, making a goddamn effort to take care of my friends," he raked a hand through his hair now, another gesture of irritation. "So you want to lie to me, tell me everything's fine, or you want to tell me what the hell is wrong with you?"

                For a moment, all he could do was stare.

                Because, honestly, he didn't know what he wanted to do. Well, that wasn't entirely true. He knew what he wanted to do, but he didn't think giving Bobby "the look" and swooping in for a kiss he would not soon forget would be entirely appropriate. Particularly not given the other man's decidedly straight status. But Christ, he was beautiful right now.

                "I… I'm just… tired."

                Weak. So weak.

                But, now that he thought of it… he was far too tired. He had remarkable endurance, after all. Could the alcohol really have drained him so much?

                Bobby's lips thinned out for a moment, as he seemed to be deciding if he should hit him or ask him another question, when a sound from the lobby made both of their heads snap around to face the hallway.

                "Kurt and Logan," he realized, aloud.

                And he was torn again. He looked back to Bobby, who was still looking at him, half irritated, half expectant, and then back to the hallway again.

                And he made his decision.

                "We should find out what's happened."

                Without another word, he stood, and walked into the lobby. As if he knew Bobby would follow.

                And he did. But he could practically feel the dirty looks he was shooting at him, right through his back.

                Jubilee, as it turned out, was only a heavy sleeper when she wanted to be. The moment anyone was discussing a plan or a mission that was not originally supposed to include her, she was wide awake.

                "You have to let me do it!" She insisted, one hand on her hip, eyebrow raised dangerously at Wolverine and Nightcrawler.

                Logan, for his part, did not look remotely tired. But he looked dirty, ragged. He hadn't been back since the night before, when they'd left to go to the bar.

                Was it only last night… mon dieu, why did it feel like so long ago?

                "Paige can do it," Bobby said, shaking his head at her.

                Her pretty face twisted up when she turned her attention to him, "You've got to be kidding me Drake."

                "She does look a little older, Jubilation," Jean-Paul added. Not that he thought she couldn't do it. In fact, he thought she was a more likely candidate than Husk, if not for that one small fact, that Paige was older. He'd seen her acting abilities, and though she tended to be rather overdramatic, she could probably pull this off.

                "This is totally unfair," she shook her head, obviously trying to remain adult about this. "Look, if I take my hair down, put on some make-up, I swear I look at least eighteen."

                She may have had a point. But he knew who would really be the deciding factor here.

                They all looked to Logan.

                "If you think so darlin', and if Kurt's ok with it."

                "Ja, I think it's a good plan. The rest of us will be nearby, listening to everything, there will be very little threat of danger to you," Nightcrawler nodded. "I will talk to the Professor in the morning, and we can meet to discuss the specifics. We have another day to think about it, before we must act, but I'm sure he will agree that this is the best way to find her and discover what they are doing without causing any damage. For now, let's all just get some sleep." And he looked around once, saw all of them nod, and turned to go upstairs. 

                Wolverine made a low sound, a growl in his throat as he meandered away. He had obviously wanted to cause some damage today. Luckily, Kurt had been there to stop him.

                Or maybe not. He still couldn't lose the image of those eyes, looking out of his sister's face. Those horrible, purple eyes.

                A hand on his shoulder. "You ok, Northstar?"

                Quickly, perhaps a little too quickly, he turned to see the girl looking at him. "Yes, Jubilee. I was just thinking."

                "You looked pretty pissed off," her brow wrinkled, and one delicate dark eyebrow arched.

                "Just thinking about Monday, is all."

                She patted his shoulder now, and smiled, "It'll all work out. That Maya, she knocked you out pretty good huh?"

                Slowly, he nodded. "That she did, petite. That she did."

                No more excuses.

                He was not a child suffering from night terrors. He was, as he had reminded Paige only a few hours ago, a grown man. He'd had a chance to recover from the nightmare. He'd had a bath, a drink, ice cream.

                And the ice cream, honestly, was damn good.

                But his mind seemed to have cleared, magically, and he was thinking logically again. The matter of fact meeting with the other X-Men, despite the strangeness of it occurring at 2am, had brought him back to reality, and he felt like an idiot for walking around looking like hell all day. No wonder everyone was worried about him. Paige woke him from a horrible nightmare, Bobby watched him eating ice cream out of the carton and staring blankly at a television all night… it was kind of them to notice, really. He supposed that he should thank them… 

                After he slept.

                Nothing to be afraid of. They were just nightmares, after all. Perhaps that mutant knocking him out had short circuited something in his head, but it was nothing real, nothing tangible, and nothing to worry about.  

                No weakness.

                He undressed and slid into bed, turned off the lamp, and closed his eyes.

                Was that a spider… crawling… on his leg…?

                He refused to acknowledge the phantom tickling. No. This was ridiculous. He had not slept in 48 hours, and he'd had enough alcohol in that time to kill a small elephant. He was hallucinating.

                Tiny legs, rushing over him, with that horrible arachnid quickness that always made the things seem so disturbing.

                He slid his hand up, onto his stomach, palm pressed flat. Nothing. Just the smoothness of his muscles, tensing and releasing, under his skin. Just the rise and fall of his breath.

                His mind would not stop turning it over. The past two days. Dreams of Jeanne-Marie, dreams of Asgard, things that had happened so long ago. Violet eyes. Spiders.

                Jean-Paul rolled over, onto his stomach, slid his arms under his pillow, turned his face to the side.

                It really had been astonishing that they'd noticed. Well, perhaps it would have been difficult for Paige not to, what with his jumping at her like that. But she'd been so honestly concerned. They were not close, had never really even held a conversation. Even Jubilee had seen it, somehow, and she really wasn't the most observant of teenagers. And Bobby…

                But no. Better not to think about that. That would certainly not help him go to sleep.

                His stomach twisted up, as he felt it happening. As he felt himself losing control, slipping away.

                But it wasn't enough to stop him.

AN/Warnings: First off, I thank anyone reading this for bearing with me on this psychological trip I'm pulling here. If you've made it this far, I feel as if I should warn you that they may get a little more disturbing from this point on. The following chapters will contain depression, violence, general fucked-up-ness and yes, eventually, "slash." I have a feeling that last one will be the deal breaker for many, but let me assure you that this will not be slash for its own sake. I have a point, and I only hope I can manage to communicate it well enough to justify the possibly disturbing imagery I'm about to start calling on. But then again, if the idea of a man with another man disgusts you so much, I doubt you would be reading a story about Jean-Paul Beaubier. And as for the other things (that would be the general fucked-up-ness,) I have no excuse but that it forwards the plot. To me, there is no other justification. And I hope you, if you're being so kind as to read this, will understand. For those of you who've given me feedback thus far:

                To ZilentZombie: I hope you're still enjoying, and please, feel free to let me know if you have any suggestions. I tend to get wordy, self-involved, and dramatic. Do let me know if I can't get away with it ;)

                To VA-river-gal: Hope you're still out there! I enjoy your stuff immensely, it's flattering to have a compliment from you ;) Same goes for you as for Z up there, we love pain, criticize us!

                To The M: Seriously… wow. I don't think I've ever had kinder words spoken (or written!) to me. I do hope that you blow those cobwebs off, because you, my dear are amazing. More please? As for being a tease… what can I say. I rarely hear complaints about that particular personality trait, so I've kept it around ;)

                To beenieweenie: Thank you for the comments. I wasn't certain if the dream chapters were working to my advantage, but I decided to give it a shot anyhow, to break the monotony of the comic book-ish story. Hope it's living up to your expectations!

And now, back to your regularly scheduled night terrors…