Chapter Four: Sunday Morning Call
When he sat up straight in bed, in the dark, he was crying.
Not sobbing, not shaking, not breathing hard, not making a sound. But his face was wet, and his eyes were burning.
And there was nothing he could do but sit and wait it out. Because he knew, deep down, he would not be able to stop it.
Not this time.
"I don't know what it is, Henri," he shook his head, too tired to pretend anymore. "But I do not believe it's just me. I think she did something to me."
Henry McCoy nodded, looking both perplexed and concerned. "These dreams, they started when she touched you, you're certain?"
"Oui, the very moment. I had the first one that night, when she knocked me out, and when I woke I was with Annie, in the infirmary," he said, trying to be patient, to remain calm. Not that he had the energy for dramatics, at the moment. But he could feel her, how warm she was, how small… "and since then, any time I've had a moment's sleep, I've had a nightmare."
"I must inquire about the nature of these dreams, Jean-Paul. Are they the garden variety, being pursued by a madman dream, or—"
"Non," he cut in, rather too sharply. He took a deep breath, and said it again, "Non, they are… personal. Things from my past, painful things."
A noise of understanding, a nod of the head. Hank leaned back, as if to physically reiterate the fact that he would not push the subject any further, he would not encroach on Northstar's privacy any more than was absolutely necessary.
Tension he had not realized had been in his shoulders suddenly drained out. Amazing what a man could speak, with such a small gesture. He wished he was not quite so tired, not so confused, so he could fully appreciate just how articulate this man was, and not just because of his enormous vocabulary.
But then, he wished those things for many reasons. And appreciation of this furry man was fairly near to the bottom of the list.
He scrubbed at his face with one hand, scraping against the dark stubble he had not shaved away yet today. It was not like him to let it go like this. Not even for a day. But then, it was not like him to stagger down to the infirmary at seven AM on a Sunday morning to find Annie, either.
Which is why, after a very brief, very intense discussion, she had personally escorted him to Hank.
She was sitting outside the door, right now. Waiting.
He'd seen it in her eyes, just as he'd seen it in Paige's last night. He'd scared her. And he was sorry for it. But honestly… honestly, what choice did he have?
Oh god, she'd been so small. So defenseless. His daughter.
"Jean-Paul?"
His head snapped up. Hank was talking to him. "I'm sorry… I'm very sorry. The dreams. It's hard not to think of them. Something so… strong. It feels so real."
"We should have the Professor examine you immediately," Hank was shaking his head. "This sounds like some sort of psychic interference. I regret now that I was halfway joking about such a possibility, when we met previously. This is entirely out of my jurisdiction as a doctor, and more into the Professor's realm. It's a shame Jean isn't here, really…"
His upper lip curled in an uncontrollable sneer, "All I need is a few more people exploring my head."
"I understand, and apologize, Jean-Paul," he shook his head once again, raising a large furry hand to clutch at the hair on top of his head, in a puzzled fashion, "but something must be done. It's draining your energy at an alarming speed, this lack of sleep, almost as if your endurance were merely on par with the average human."
A touch of his typical, caustic nature suddenly flared. "You can say it, I won't break. I'm going to go mad, non?" Even to his own ears, he sounded angry, but cold. As if it didn't really touch him enough to make him really upset.
But Hank leaned forward, once again. "Not if I can help it."
He'd said himself, though, he couldn't. Out of his jurisdiction as a doctor. He could make him sleep, but he couldn't keep him from dreaming. If he did, it would, of course, ruin the effects of sleep.
So Jean-Paul had submitted to an MRI, after urging Annie, who sat clutching at her throat in the hallway, to return to her work and not to worry about him anymore. She'd hugged him. Tight. And nodded.
Good god, I really must look like hell, was all he could think, as he watched her walk away.
So, he sat, gripping his cup of coffee as if his life depended on it, staring at the Professor.
He was not looking forward to this. Not at all.
He knew they were lucky that Xavier was who he was and chose not to simply kill them all by thinking too hard. That the man had a code of ethics, and wasn't intruding upon their every thought. He shuddered to think of someone like Stacy wielding such a power. She could barely contain the knowledge of a harmless crush; she would doubtless morph into the devil himself if she could see all the secrets each of them carried around every day.
And they all had so many of those. Every one of them.
But Xavier was not that sort of a man. That had been part of the reason he had been able to convince Northstar to come here, to teach. He was a man who believed in fairness, and he stuck to that. No one was perfect, the man had made mistakes, yes. But they were lucky he had the measure of integrity he did. The entire world, whether they knew it or not, was lucky.
Still, it did not help the sickness in his heart, or the ache in his head, to think of that. Because, all integrity aside… he was dreading letting Xavier into his head.
"I know it's difficult, Jean-Paul," Xavier was saying, in his permanently calm, collected tones, staring at him over his desk. "I know you've had enough of this sort of thing, if this Maya has indeed been entering your thoughts as you sleep."
He suppressed a cold chill, thinking of it. Thinking of Jeanne-Marie going cold in his arms, thinking of the whirr of metal in the air, the way it sliced just so through his skin, thinking of Joanna… "I don't know what else to do," he admitted, as the hairs on his arms, on the back of his neck, stood on end. "I don't think I have a choice."
"You're certain these aren't just nightmares?"
He narrowed his eyes dangerously at the Professor, "I think I know what my own dreams feel like, Xavier. Would I be here if I thought it was something I'd done to myself, if I thought I could get away with keeping it quiet?"
He knew he sounded positively venomous. And he did not care. Not a little.
In fact, he irrationally hoped it had stung.
Xavier didn't look as if it had, however. He simply nodded, accepting. "Of course not. I only want to be sure this is absolutely necessary, and discern how far I should go with it."
He blinked, and could not help but notice how slow his eyelids were to open again. All the venom drained from his voice, he simply sounded cold again. "I know you are a good man, Professor. I would not be here otherwise. But I must ask you… do not go further than you have to. You're right, I've had enough of this sort of thing. Just… just tell me if it's true. If it's her."
It didn't matter, of course, what the Professor told him. He knew it was her.
But he had to hear someone else say it, just to confirm that he wasn't insane. He was starting to have doubts.
"I wouldn't think of it. You have my word."
He was a good man, yes. But somehow, that didn't make Jean-Paul any more comfortable with what he knew had to happen.
"I'm going to ask you to relax now. Let go of your blocks, and allow me to enter your mind easily," Xavier was telling him.
Heart thudding, he did as he was told to the best of his abilities. He closed his eyes…
"He says he cannot feel any connection between me and someone on the outside," he shook his head, pulling at his hair fitfully, drinking his seventh cup of coffee before it was even noon. "That was all he could say without moving further, looking into the dreams themselves. But he knows what I feel, and he believes me when I say she is there, in my head, when I sleep. And… he says I may have to go to sleep for him to be aware of the presence, since that is the only time it seems to turn up."
Annie leaned close to him, put her arm around him. "You don't want to go to sleep."
A sound escaped him, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. He stared hard at the ground, at the grass between his feet. She wasn't asking him a question, of course. It was obvious that he didn't want to go to sleep. But still, he answered, "Non. I do not want to sleep, and I do not want him to see what happens to me when I am asleep. The things that I've seen in the past two days..."
She leaned her head on his shoulder, since he would not, could not do that to her. Too weak already. He was a grown man, after all. "Wouldn't it be better, in the end, Jean-Paul? It would mean he would have to see your dreams, maybe, have to feel how much it… hurts you," she seemed hesitant to imply that he might be hurt by anything. Ah, did she know him so well already? "But wouldn't it be better if it meant it would be over faster?"
He managed a weak chuckle at this. Such a nurse at heart, this woman. "When I was little, my… adoptive mother, my aunt, she used to tell me to rip the bandage off quickly, you know. Yes, it hurts more all at once, she would say, but it's over so quickly, and you can begin to recover." The laugh again, small and weak, and a short pause. He had not thought about the Martins in what felt like years, despite the fact that he'd once thought their name was his own. "I don't remember much about her… I was six when they were killed, she and my uncle. But I always wondered about the wisdom of that little mantra. I can't remember, Annie. But perhaps she was a nurse, too."
When he looked over at her, finally, he was surprised to see her serious, pale aqua eyes looked a little wet. And she was chewing on her bottom lip delicately.
"You should go," he told her, suddenly extremely uncomfortable with how close she felt, with what he had just said to her. "I'm keeping you from Carter."
She shook her head. "No, not at all—"
Gently then, he took her arm off his shoulders, stood up before the bench they had been occupying, and offered her a hand. "You should go," he repeated, quietly. Kindly. But he meant it.
She took the hand, and stood, but didn't let it go for a few moments. She just looked at him. "You should talk to Paige… and Bobby. They asked about you earlier. I didn't know what to say, so I told them you were with the Professor."
Annie knew, of course. She was the only one who knew, god willing.
"I'll see Bobby later today, and I'll go and find Paige now."
She opened her mouth, as if she would say more. But didn't.
"Thank you."
For a minute, he was sure she would have to hug him again.
Instead, she nodded, and turned toward the house.
Never in his life had he experienced a relief so complete, and a sadness so overwhelming, at the same time. Separately, he'd felt both things in staggering quantities. But he'd never before noticed how well they went together, until he sent her away.
For a moment, he simply watched the girls together. Paige would come up on Bridget, honestly granting her no quarter, but certainly not using her powers to aid her, and Bridget would either find a way to foil her attack, or end up on the ground. They were laughing as they did this, over and over again, and it somehow seemed right. Out here, under the sun, before the fall grew cold.
He hadn't noticed it before, but now he saw it. The way Bridget's eyes lingered on the other girl. On her legs in their spare running shorts. On her face, even after Paige had looked away and was busy explaining some stance or another. Of course, he felt like a complete fool for not having noticed. And it also explained why she'd been so very apologetic about "clinging," as she called it, to himself and Kurt the other night. It wasn't just that she was independent, though that no doubt had a large part in it. She probably felt silly because it made her look as if she was throwing herself at them.
And it was clear that Bridget Bain was not remotely interested in men. Or, if she was, it was only a sideline to her main interests.
He'd made an assumption, of course, based on her actions that night, and based on her continued association with Bobby. But now that he thought of it, he really hadn't been hanging on her, and when they'd been next to each other on the couch, he hadn't even made a move to take her hand or put his arm around her.
Good god. He'd been so busy thinking about himself, being a bitter, horrible, self-involved asshole, as Bobby had so kindly pointed out, that he'd completely lost the plot. Although he hadn't said anything aloud, it occurred to him that he might owe his teammate Iceman an apology.
Of course… it had been a hard few days.
"Hey! Northstar!" Paige had caught sight of him and was trotting in his direction, toward the tree he was leaning on.
Bridget looked up and smiled at him, gave a little wave, and followed soon behind.
"There you are," the blonde said, in her best motherly voice, as she stopped just in front of him. "I was worried about you when I didn't see you this morning."
He attempted to smile at her. "I meant to thank you, Paige, for your consideration last night—"
"Holy mother, Jean-Paul, you make it sound like some kind of formal award I gave out or something," she batted him playfully on the arm now, actually blushing just a bit. "You just looked so sick…"
"The man doesn't look so fresh today, either." Bridget had joined them by this time, and was wiping the sweat off her hands onto her own soccer shorts. "God, are you ok? Your eyes…," she leaned forward, and went up on her toes, all five foot three of her, to try and get a closer look at him.
"I gotta say though," Husk also considered him closely, obviously trying to seem like she wasn't as worried anymore. It wasn't working, but he appreciated the effort. "I like the scruffy look on you. Perfect, pretty guys like you always make a girl want to rough them up a bit."
He had to admit, their energy was disarming. He raised an eyebrow at her, but made sure at least half a smile was still on his face. "Yes well, perhaps someone should warn Warren."
Laughing, she gave him another little swipe. "Not that I expect my liking the scruffy look to impress you, but I'm sure you know what I mean," and she winked, the blush in her cheeks deepening so that it could no longer be passed off as simply coming from her exertions with the other girl.
"Although I normally love my face to be scrutinized by the masses," he tried to joke, wondering just how successful he could possibly be at such an endeavor in his disheveled, puffy-eyed state, "I was really just stopping by to let you know that I'm alive and well, though I may not look it. And to say thank you. Annie mentioned that you'd stopped by this morning."
"Yeah, me and Bobby," she cocked her head at him now, eyes narrowed as if considering him deeply.
What was it about women that they seemed to just… know some things.
It was damn unnerving at times.
"Well, I suppose I'll see him later," he shrugged it off. Then he looked to the red-head, "Did Kurt find you? He wanted you to be there for—"
"A meeting?" She asked.
He only nodded.
"Yeah, he found me. I'll be there."
He pushed off the tree, lightly, and decided now was a good time for an escape. He was rapidly growing uncomfortable with the looks he was getting from both of them. He knew, of course, that it had much to do with the circles under his eyes, the stubble on his cheeks, and the fact that his eyes looked bloodshot. Almost as if he'd been crying, really.
And he didn't want to think about that. Not at the moment.
"Right then, carry on with the lesson. Au revoir."
And before they could say anything more, he started walking toward the front door.
He had no plans to go inside, of course. Not until he had to. But he could only hope that no one would be in the yard on the other side of the house.
Funny though. At the same time, he almost hoped they would be. Anyone, really. Just so he wouldn't have to feel it again. The cold. The cut. The ache.
He spent most of the meeting wondering why Alex had been giving him a particularly dirty look from the infirmary as he walked by. Oh, he paid attention to "the plan" well enough, he was just a little… distracted by the intensity of the look. It had been the unmistakable, patented Summers' Little Black Rain Cloud Look. It made him wonder what he'd done to deserve it, really.
And it irritated him immensely. But at the moment, there was very little that wasn't irritating him.
Finally, everyone had said their bit, and it appeared that he would escape when, "Jean-Paul, can I talk to you for a moment?"
The German accent made if obvious, of course. And he had a sinking sensation in his stomach, rather like the one he used to get back in his ruffian days when he knew he'd been caught.
But he turned to face Kurt Wagner, in all his blue fuzzy glory, head on. "Certainly."
The others had cleared out, the plans solidified, the schedule set in stone. He, however, was apparently being kept after class. And it was fairly obvious why.
Quietly, the other man moved to the door, and shut it behind Bobby, the last one out. And then turned to face him. "You look like hell."
Calmly, he took a sip of his tea. The coffee was starting to hurt his stomach, but he was nowhere near ready to give up caffeine today. "I'd noticed."
"I talked to the Professor," Kurt shook his head, his golden eyes falling to the floor with something like disappointment in them, "and he doesn't think you need to be there."
So predictable. He very nearly laughed. "I'm sure the show would go on without me, Kurt. But the fact remains, that I need to be there." And he did. If something went wrong, if Jubilee didn't get in and out of there with the information they needed, he needed to be there.
He tried to tell himself that it wasn't because he wanted to see her caught himself. He wanted to pretend it was because he was concerned about Jubilee, or Bridget, or the fate of any other man or woman on that campus who dared to oppose their little organization.
But it was a lie. Because he wanted nothing more than to be the one to end it.
Kurt was shaking his head, "You are obviously sick, mein Freund. And as far as I know, you don't get sick. Not unless something is very, very wrong. Richtig?"
"I'm not going to try and lie to you. It's obvious that something is wrong, you said it yourself. I look like hell," and he considered the man before him for just one moment. Thought of him a few nights ago, laughing and eating ice cream in the kitchen. In the bar, making jokes about Logan's thick skull and American beer. And he decided that rather than simply "not lying," he should tell him the truth. "When she touched me, Maya," he hated the name, hated the way it felt in his mouth, hated the way it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, "she did something to me. I haven't been able to sleep since. And when I do, there are… nightmares. And not just your average wake up trying not to piss the bed nightmares. I can feel them. Right now, standing here…," a suppressed shiver, now, "I can feel them. I can feel her, in my head." He took a step closer, looked his teammate directly in the eye. "Maybe it will be nothing. Maybe Jubilee will simply walk in there, find out why Logan can't sniff the girl out, and bring her out of hiding as easy as that. But we don't know what's going to happen. And Kurt… I need to do this."
Nightcrawler looked at him for a moment, the muscles in his jaw working heavily as he considered. "I don't believe, Jean-Paul, that I could stop you if I tried."
"You never know," he answered quickly, knowing it sounded bitter, "you might get lucky and I'll pass out from exhaustion just before you leave."
But Kurt smiled at him anyhow, and clapped him on the shoulder. His grip was reassuringly firm, and warm. And the smile matched it. "I trust you. You know what's best for yourself. And, as you said, it's not as if it's a difficult thing. We are only there as backup. But promise me, if something happens, if you…"
"If I break down?"
Kurt nodded, no longer smiling, but patting him on the back now and moving him toward the door. "Yes, actually. Promise that you'll stay home. Or go home."
He didn't want to promise anything of the sort. But really, the man could have been much more difficult about this. "I will."
Kurt turned the doorknob, smiling again, "Did you like the ice cream?"
"Someone told you, did they?"
"Ja, and I'll have you know that Oreos and Crème is my favorite."
"I'll buy you another carton next time I'm out."
Nightcrawler patted him on the back one last time as they stepped into the hallway together, now grinning his best swashbuckler grin. "We'll share it."
He actually gave a smile back, for that one. "But of course."
"If you need me—"
"I know where you'll be."
The fuzzy elf threw him one last grin, nodded elegantly, and turned to make his way to the Danger Room, tail swishing behind him.
Actually, he felt a little less heavy as he turned to head in the opposite direction. As if admitting to what was happening when not about to crack, as he had been this morning, had actually done him some good.
But the weight returned to his shoulders when he nearly ran into Bobby Drake. Standing in the hallway.
"Hey, JP."
Fuck, was pretty much the only thought that passed through his head at that moment in time.
"Look, I just wanted to say that I'm sorry I gave you shit last night. You're obviously having a rough time, and I know how that is. I should've backed off," the shorter man appeared to be having difficulty meeting his eyes, for some reason.
There was a pause, where Bobby apparently convinced himself to look Jean-Paul in the eye, and Jean-Paul looked back with an expression that was somewhere between terror and sadness, his entire body tensed from the inside out.
And finally, he managed to speak. "No, you were right. I was being an asshole. You were absolutely right, and I apologize."
Both of Bobby's eyebrows raised slowly, causing his purple sunglasses, already situation on top of his head, to move back just a little further. "Whoa… ok didn't expect that. I mean… no offense, but I was ready for the old, 'yeah damn right kid, now get out of my face,' act."
"You're not a kid," Jean-Paul said, before he thought it through completely.
Bobby nodded slowly, and his expression changed to one of deep consideration, his eyebrows lowering and drawing in tight, and his mouth thinning out, his lips pressing together. "I know that," he muttered, dropping his eyes and looking right through the other X-Man.
"So do I," he just looked at him, unflinching, loving that thoughtful expression on his familiar features. Admiring it outright. He simply couldn't be bothered to hide it, not right then.
Blinking hard once, as if he'd realized something important, the other man suddenly looked up at him. He almost looked like he'd forgotten he was there altogether, for a moment. "Thanks."
Something about that look. "I meant to find you, this morning. Annie said you'd asked about me. I should have found you then, but… it's already been a long day."
"Yeah, you look like you've had a long day. A 72 hour one."
He managed a small laugh at that, "Not yet."
"Seriously, though. You sure you don't want to talk about it?"
At that moment, he wanted nothing more than to talk about it. It was rather surprising to realize, but he found that something in him would be happy to talk about what was happening to him for hours, if it meant this would continue. This… whatever it was he felt, right now. Between them.
Which was the first, and only needed sign that he should end it immediately. "No, I'm alright. I just wanted to thank you."
Again, Iceman shook his head, then reached up and pulled his shades back down over his eyes. "Just seems to me, mon ami, that everyone around this place is having a hard time lately. Seems like we'd all be a hell of a lot happier if we pulled our heads out of our respective asses, and helped each other get through it."
And before Northstar could ask him if he wanted to talk about what he'd meant, exactly, by that statement… Bobby was halfway down the hall.
He would be lying if he said he honestly did not feel the urge to crawl, as he headed back to his room for a shower.
His legs weren't weak, per se. Just... tight. Everything on him was so tight. His neck protested every time he moved his head, his back felt as if it had no smooth muscle left, only knots. Sixty-two hours now, he'd been awake. Minus a few nightmares. Normally, he should be able to handle this. He wouldn't be in top form, perhaps, but he should at least be functional.
But right now, all he wanted was to sleep.
He did manage to take the shower first. But after cutting himself three or four times in a badly conceived attempt to shave, he found himself sitting. On his bed. God, it was soft. Perhaps if he could just lay down for a few minutes… close his eyes. He knew he should be in the lab, if he was going to sleep. He knew he should tell the Professor, so he could be on his guard.
Fuck it. He didn't think he could move, now that he had stretched out in the sheets, gotten rid of the wet towel around his waist, put his head on the pillow.
And fuck Maya and her nightmares. All he wanted... was sleep.