Title: Scars
Summary: I can't summarize this one. I don't know how to describe it. Just read it, please.
Warnings: This is a very dark fic. I cried. You might, too.
Rating: PG-13 for adult topics
Setting: after Reflections Part 1 and 2
Characters: Jubilee/Logan, guest starring Jean
Scars
Jean poked her head inta our room. "Hey Jubilee, Logan," she said. "The rest of us are going swimming. Do you want to come?"
Jubilee was sittin' at her desk, workin' on another o' her papers. She was scribblin' in a notebook while consultin' a thick physics text, and didn't even look up. "No," she said.
Jean looked surprised. "Are you sure?"
"Yes," Jubilee said. Jean shrugged an' closed the door.
I was hot, though. I woulda welcomed a dip in the pool. Jubilee usually loved swimmin', an' today was the perfect day fer it. It hadda be at least ninety degrees outside. An' here Jubilee was, sittin' here workin' on one o' her papers when I jus' knew she hadda be dyin' under her long jeans an' long-sleeved shirt. I got up. "Jubes," I asked her, "Are ya sure ya won't come?"
"I'm fine," she said. "Go on." But she was sweating. "I want to get this done."
I shrugged. I'll never understand women.
* * *
I was sittin' out on the side porch, facin' the pool and thinkin' 'bout Jubes later. The evenin' was still sticky, but the dip in the pool had cooled me down some. I still couldn't understand why she didn't come earlier. She loved the pool. She loved swimmin'. So why hadn't she come?
Unable ta figure her out, I let it go fer a while an' sat there, jus' watchin' the fireflies wink in and out among the trees. I had jus' 'bout decided I was goin' in when I heard a door close. Very quietly.
No one but me woulda heard it. My sensitive hearin' picked up that sound, and I narrowed my eyes, focusin' on the side door ta the mansion. A second later a figure slipped outta the shadows and headed fer the pool. With that killer figure and small frame, it could only be one other person; Jubilee.
She vaulted the low fence surroundin' the perimeter of the pool. I could see a lot o' bare leg, an' that made my mouth water, but she was also wearin' one of my T-shirts. Now, I don't mind that she borrowed one o' my shirts, but I was curious. She's never gone swimmin' with a T-shirt before.
She executed a neat, shallow dive inta the pool, an' came up a few minutes later, drippin' water and lookin' like some water nymph. Moonlight silvered the water streamin' off her, outlinin' her body with lines o' gleamin' silver sparkles. She dove back in, swam the length o' the pool, and came out the other end. Then she took a few deep breaths an' dove underwater.
She loves swimmin' underwater. She said to me once it was so peaceful bein' underwater, sounds muffled and nothin' touchin' her skin but water. She's developed a touch o' claustrophobia after her encounter with Creed; after seein' the crate he kept her imprisoned in, I can understand that.
She don't come up right away, but I ain't really worried. The first time she did that it scared the hell outta me; then she explained that with her ability ta manipulate molecules, she can keep takin' oxygen from the water an' push it inta her lungs, so she can stay underwater far longer'n most people can. I called her a mermaid, once; it made her laugh.
She does come up fer air eventually, though; an' she grabs her towel as she pulls off that T-shirt. My jaw drops, an' I'm glad no one else sees me gapin' at her like a beached whale. She's ain't wearin' nothin' but that T-shirt. Skinny-dippin' in the pool? I wish I'd followed her in, but it's too late now. She's headin' in.
I reach the bedroom a few minutes after she does. I peek in 'round the door, which she's accidentally left just the tiniest bit open. Not that anyone'd walk in without knockin' first; well, maybe one o' the girls, but I'm sure they've all seen each other nude lots o' times. There are open showers in the locker rooms, after all.
She's pulled off the T-shirt, and she's standin' in front of the mirror nude. At first, all I can see is all that bare skin; then I watch her eyes fill with tears in the mirror as her finger traces the white line printed indelibly across the curve of her breast. An' the reason for her behavior today becomes clear.
Her scars.
I knew she was touchy 'bout 'em. She's avoided wearin' her usual cutoffs and tank tops, now that I think o' it; since the warm weather's just started, it ain't as noticeable; but she's also made sure the lights are off when we make love. I didn' know they bothered her this much.
She touches the white skin on the inside o' her thighs, where huge areas o' her skin were rubbed off. I still don't know what happened; Jubilee won't tell me 'bout it, but whatever Creed did, he rubbed off all the skin there. The white, scarred skin goes all the way up her thighs ta her loins. She used ta shave herself, but it ain't necessary any longer; body hair don't grow there anymore.
She turns, so she can see the scars on her back reflected in the mirror. She flinches at the sight, an' tears fill her pretty blue eyes. I feel 'em gather in my eyes, too, an' I blink 'em away furiously. Jubilee's back is criss-crossed with white lines, some thick, some thin; the thin ones from Creed's claws, the thick ones from the rope she tol' me Creed whipped her with. The lines go down ta her backside, an' then wrap 'round her front. The smooth outline o' her body is ruined here by an indent in her skin right on top o' her hipbone. I seen that shape o' scar before; an' it hurts ta see it on my girl. Creed bit her there, right over her hip. The tattoo she was so happy 'bout, the tattoo o' a rose with my name over it, is gone. She touches the spot where it used ta be, an' the tears spill down her cheeks. Even if she had cosmetic surgery done, it ain't gonna cover that chunk o' missin' flesh. Nothin' can. She's gonna carry that mark on her hip 'til the day she dies.
She sits down on the bed, sobbin' like her heart's gonna break, an' I want ta go in there an' comfort her, but I don't. I can sympathize, but I can't empathize. I have a healin' factor. I'll never have scars like that; I'll never have any marks on my body that I have ta carry fer the rest o' my life. I wish Jubilee had a healin' factor too…then she wouldn't have ta either.
Damn Creed. My hands curl inta fists. If she hadn't killed him herself, I woulda. And if I had, he wouldn't'a died on thick ice in the middle of the damned Hudson River; I'd'a tortured him like he tortured my Jubes. I'd'a sliced, diced, an' cut him up like he cut her; hurt him like he hurt her; made him scream just like Jubilee musta screamed when he left the wounds that scarred her body so terribly. His world woulda been nothin' but agonizin' pain, just as hers was; everythin' she felt, every tear she cried, every scream he tore from her throat I'd'a torn from his own mouth, an' more. If I'd'a had him, I'd'a broken him like he broke her.
She don't show it, but she ain't the same girl that came home a year ago. I still see shadows in her eyes, shadows of pain, an' o' the darkness in her soul. I see it in my own eyes sometimes when I look at myself in the mirror, and rage boils up in me. I'm strong. I can handle anythin' the world has ta throw at me; I've proven that, time an' time again. But she ain't made o' the same stuff I am; she can't handle that. It's a friggin' miracle she survived all she has and still has her sanity. None o' the other girls, not 'Ro, not Jean, they wouldn't'a been able ta survive what my girl's been through. An' fresh in my mind, as painful as though it's been jus' yesterday, I still see the blank look in her eyes when she stood up there on that bridge with Creed's claws at her throat. Whatever he did, he hurt her so bad he broke her spirit, an' she ain't been the same. She ain't never gonna be the same. The scars on her body ain't nothin' compared ta the scars on her soul. An' it hurts me more'n I'm ever gonna admit ta anyone, knowin' I can't do nothin' ta help ease her pain. All I can do is love her, an' hope it'll be enough.
I have ta go shred somethin'. Thinkin' 'bout Creed hurtin' my Jubes has pissed me off. I stop off at Jean and Scott's room; fortunately ol' One Eye's off somewhere. Jean's brushin' her hair. I don't trust myself ta speak; I jerk my thumb behind me, toward our bedroom. Jean understands; she heads fer the door. Me, I'm goin' somewhere where I can work off the temper; not the Danger Room, but ta the gym, where I can beat up the punchin' bag usin' nothin' but my fists an' my temper.
* * *
The swim felt as good as I thought it would; it's been unseasonably hot today. The water's cool, and the quiet is welcome. I swam for a while underwater; there's an odd sense of peace under there that I can't find anywhere else. It's not fun; fun would have been being in here with the others. Fun would have been making love in the pool with Logan. But I'm not in the mood today.
I take off the wet T-shirt, glad that I didn't run into anyone on the way back up to my room. I try not to look in the mirror, but the white lines on my body draw my eyes to it and I touch the one on my breast, the one Creed left when he dragged one of his claws through the skin. It's faded out; no longer an angry red, it's become a pale white, just a few shades lighter than my own skin. It's not noticeable now, but as summer goes on and my skin acquires that golden tan color from the sun, it's going to stand out like a neon light. The thought makes me ill.
My eyes travel down my body to the white, scarred skin between my thighs. I touch it involuntarily. The scar feels smooth under my fingertips. It doesn't hurt anymore, for which I'm thankful. If it still hurt as badly as it did when Creed shoved the knotted rope between my thighs and dragged it back and forth until my skin was sanded away, I would have committed suicide by now just to get away from the excruciating agony.
I turn, to see the lines on my back. For a moment, I don't see the mirror, and the comfortable, familiar surroundings of the bedroom; instead, I see the warehouse, all that dark, empty space that I'm hanging in the middle of, and I see Creed, swinging that heavy rope at me again. It burns as it streaks across my back, the same place several times in a row, so he can make sure that I'll scar. He wanted to ruin me for Logan; I'm just very, very lucky that Logan still loves me, even though I look so ugly. Tears fill my eyes.
I'm lucky that he didn't slash my face, or something like that. The tears gathering in my eyes spill down my cheeks unnoticed as I touch the deep indentation on my hip where Creed bit me. I still remember screaming as he ripped away the chunk of skin that I had Logan's name tattooed on; it hurt as his teeth scraped against my hipbone. Just the memory of it makes me want to cry. That dent will never go away. I'm planning on saving the proceeds from my next paper to go and have cosmetic surgery done, to remove the scars Creed left all over my body just like Bastion did, but no cosmetic surgeon in the world is going to be able to re-grow the missing flesh.
I sit down on the bed heavily, no longer able to stop the tears flooding down my cheeks. I do feel better since I told Charles and Hank what happened; letting it out did help me deal with it. And just in time, too; long-sleeved shirts might have gone unnoticed in the winter, but it definitely would have been noticed once warmer weather got here. But long sleeves were the only way I could hide the lines on my wrists where I've been cutting myself. Logan has no idea how much his love has helped me; if he rejected me, if he stopped loving me, I would have already slashed my wrists open and bled to death. He doesn't know. I didn't tell him…I didn't tell anyone…about the razor blades hidden in the bottom of my overnight bag, and what I do with them. I don't know if anyone could understand the feeling of self-hatred I carry around with me. Deep inside, I know I wasn't the whore Creed told me I was. He may have forced me to say it by hurting me until I did, he may have forced me to repeat it over and over again, but I knew I wasn't.
How does the old saying go? 'What the heart knows, sometimes the head forgets?' My heart knew I wasn't a whore, a slut, but my head had been convinced that it was true, that I couldn't keep my legs closed. And then the miscarriage…I'm glad the doctor put me to sleep. When I woke up, it was all over. If it had been Logan's child, I would have been ready to go through all that pain and misery, but not for Creed. He put me through enough, damn it.
There's a sudden movement at my room door, and I only distantly register the fact that I must have left the door open a bit, because I swear Jean didn't turn the knob when she came in. She sat down on the end of the bed and wrapped her arms around me, like she used to when I was thirteen, and she projects a blanket of sympathy and caring warmth around my mind even as she wraps my towel around my suddenly cold body. And just like that, I fall apart. We sit like that for a long time, me crying into her shoulder as my body shakes with sobs, and suddenly I'm not twenty-three anymore, and she's not thirty-three. I'm thirteen again, and she's twenty-three, comforting a lonely, scared orphan newly arrived in a strange house with strange people, cursed with powers I didn't understand. Jean's shoulder was the first female one I'd cried on since my mother's death. After a while, I tear my mind away from my own misery long enough to realize she's crying, too. I get myself under control, push away from her, and wipe my tears away with the edge of the towel, then reach over and wipe hers away too. "I'm sorry," I say.
"Don't be," she says with a watery smile, taking the edge of the towel and drying the rest of her face. "You needed that."
"Yeah," I say, suddenly surprised. The pall of gloom I've had hanging over my head the last day or so has lifted, and I can even smile a little as I wrap the towel around my nude body and get up to get dressed. I put on panties, bra, then my satin pajama bottoms and matching top. Jean looks away until I'm decently covered (more to preserve my sense of modesty than anything else; she's seen everything under my clothes more than once. Hell, we've all seen each other nude. The open showers in the locker rooms aren't exactly conducive to modesty, after all…which is why I've been showering in Logan's and my bathroom after training sessions.) Jean picks at a thread in the bedspread as I put the wet towel in the laundry hamper.
"I didn't know they bothered you that badly, Jubilee," she says quietly.
I sigh, and sit down on the bed again, hugging my knees to my chest. "It's just vanity, I suppose," I say, trying to make light of what is, for me, not a light topic. Jean doesn't buy it; she knows me too well. She gives me that sidelong look that tells me I'm being naughty.
"It's not just vanity," she says. "They really bother you. You have to understand something, Jubilee; you don't look ugly to us, or to Logan. When we look at you, we don't see scars. We see the girl we've watched grow up, the girl we've all helped raise. It hurts having you wrap your pain around yourself and avoid talking about it. It hurts seeing the scars on your wrist where you hurt yourself, where you cut yourself, and have you reject the hand we reach out to help you."
I stare at her blankly. "You all knew?"
"I don't know about anyone else, but Ororo and I both did. We saw the cuts one morning when you were doing breakfast dishes. You have no idea how many nights I sat on the edge of my bathtub just on the other side of the wall from you, and monitored you telepathically to make sure you didn't go all the way. You came really close, once, after you and Logan had a fight. I slipped into your mind and knocked you out, then came in to get you up off the floor. I kept you asleep while I stopped the bleeding, then got you into bed. When you woke up the next morning you thought it was a dream, didn't you?"
I nod. "Jubilee, I've been your surrogate mother for years now. It's very hard to get anything by me. Would you have been able to get this by your mother, if she were alive?"
Guilt washes over me. My mother would have had fits. It would have hut her more to know that I was keeping things from her than it would have hurt for me to go straight to her and tell her outright that I needed help. And Jean must feel the same way. She nods as I look up at her. "It hurts me the same way," she says. "And Ororo, too. We tried to talk to you, so many times; but you always walked away. You refused to let us help. You're a grown woman, now; we can't force you to accept our help the way we could when you were younger. So we did the only thing we could to make us feel better while we waited for you to open up and ask."
The only thing I can think of to say is, "I don't do it anymore."
Jean nods. "I know you don't. Not since Hank did your surgery." She looks at me. "Jubilee, I know it isn't any of my business, but do you still have the razors? Just so I know if I still have to worry about them."
I lean over the bed and pull out the overnight bag stored under it. I open it, and take out the packet of razor blades hidden in its pocket. I drop it into Jean's hand. "I don't have them anymore," I say, shoving the bag back under the bed. Jean looks at it for a while, quietly, then reaches over to me and hugs me.
"Thank you," she says, and I hear her swallow a lump in her throat. "We love you, Jubilee."
I hug her back. "Thanks, Jean."
She gets up. "Now, if you're feeling better, there's someone downstairs in the gym you need to talk to. Logan saw you in here; he told me. That's what brought me in here. You need to clear things up with him."
I swing my legs off the bed. "I'll go see him now."
* * *
I'm towelin' off, sweatin' an' exhausted, when I look up an' see her in the doorway. She's wearin' her pajamas, an' a smile on her face. Her eyes are once again clear; there's no more o' the pain an' misery in 'em that I saw earlier. Talkin' ta Jean musta done her some good then. I'm glad. I open my arms, an' she rushes inta 'em, ignorin' the sweat that slicks my skin. She hugs me so tight I imagine my ribs creakin'. I don't mind a bit. I'm glad she's feelin' better. My fingers tangle in her hair as I hug her to me. "Feelin' better, Jubes?"
She nods. "I'm sorry, Logan," she says. "I know you don't mind the scars…but I do."
"Darlin', it ain't 'bout what I like or don't like," I tell her. "You gotta live with yerself. You do whatever makes ya happy. If ya wanna get the scars removed, then do it. I'm still gonna love ya whatever ya choose ta do."
"Thank you," she says, her voice muffled by the fact that she's buried her head in my chest hair. Then she sniffs. "Boy, do you need a shower."
I laugh, an' together we leave the gym.