It is a whispered word that jerks and jumps around the gears of your mind driving you mad. It means something. It means something you ought to know, but there are so many voices. Maybe one of them knows, or maybe nobody understands. Perhaps we are all going crazy.
Someone –You? Him? Her? Them?– has turned off the light. It's hard to know when you aren't sure who falls into which category. They stand out in shadows. Only the stunted silhouettes of dark forms flicker in and out of visibility. You mind categorizes and arranges in much the same way. Paper thin outlines of things you once knew are filed, plastered to walls of your mind, tossed in heaps, soaking up the darkness like coffee filters and becoming transparent.
Who you are is wrapped up in a thousand voices, swept away by the stampede, smothering coherent thought like thick white gauze. You are everybody, nobody, does it really make a difference anymore? They draw closer and your mind in the midst of a hurricane doesn't even remember what to feel. Should you be scared, angry, happy? A hand grabs you, rough, not intending to sooth or comfort. Your mind spasms forth a memory. Pain. Bad. Fight.
You struggle wildly, deciding you definitely do not like them, but the darkness makes your battle blind. More hands seize, trying to hold you still, but that only makes you wrestle harder. Then a sharp crash, and glass shards glittering in the darkness like tiny diamonds. Did you do that? Something in your mind knows you did, it screams like a voice underwater, but how would you ever explain how? You'll drown the voice in the sea of all the others. You refuse to believe it's true, but the ocean is become shallower. The silence is unnerving. They'll never let you leave now, no matter how hard you fight. Something must come along to take you away from this place, but most of all, the monsters that exist in your own mind.
The rest is hazy, pauses, dips, swirls, flying by in rapid succession, eased on by pain killers. Jesus comes. He's bald. You may have met Jesus before. You may have been Jesus before. Are you Jesus? No he is. Jesus is bald. Who was he again? The thoughts in your own mind don't even make sense anymore, and you can't piece them together fast enough. It's a porcelain vase broken five minutes before mom gets home. It'll never be perfectly fixed, and not nearly in enough time. You can't hide the pieces from mom, even if you shove them in that dark corner. You can't hide the pieces from Jesus.
The whispered word still blows through your head in times like this. It is on the tips of a thousand tongues. You want to catch it and hang onto it because Jesus is beside you. He holds your hand, gentle, and speaks to you sometimes, but you can't even be sure if it's Jesus anymore. Part of you thinks he is a doctor, maybe a teacher, perhaps the president, or the king of some distant country. If he were Jesus, he would take you out of this place.
Maybe that is the whispered word. Deliverance.
It rained that night. During the afternoon the storm had rolled in and spit out a light drizzle. When the first raindrop hit Bobby in the nose, he announced it. Then he announced every other time a raindrop hit him. It was just enough to get everyone inside for the rest of the day. By the time everyone was ready for bed, it was no longer a drizzle, but a steady tapping reverberating through the walls of the entire mansion. The raindrops dashed through the heavens, spurred around by a light wind, and then came to earth, rippling in the lakes and streams, saturating every arduously worked on flower bed and adorning the blushing pink petals of the apple blossoms with a shimmering garnish of liquid lace.
Scott had found his way to bed, but he didn't sleep. He lay awake in the dark. Sometimes the entire room lit up in a flash of lightning, but then he was cast back into darkness with only the crack of thunder to let him know he was alive. The rain was now pounding a rhythm into every wall of the mansion, and his thoughts latched onto this rhythm, lacing through his mind at a steady beat. His first thought was more of a pondering to chew on. What did the flood that covered the entire world sound like? The rain was coming down in sheets, and in his mind he was beginning to envision a completely waterlogged estate in startling detail. The rational side of his brain told him that this was impossible, but the thought refused to leave him be. If one gets to thinking about these things when they're lying all alone in their bed they can very easily frighten themselves with almost anything, so he decided not to think about that anymore.
Then he settled on the real problem, why he couldn't sleep. The nightmares. He used to have them all the time at the orphanage, and then when he moved to the mansion they became less frequent, but they never vanished entirely. He still remembered the time when his powers first manifested, and it stained his thoughts like wet paint. Then there were the nightmares of the beatings he took from Jack O'Diamonds that never escaped recollection. Then there were the other ones that were just plain scary. He'd wake up drenched in cold sweat, shaking and twitching, and more often than not, he could never remember what they had been about. Sometimes he just didn't want to go to sleep. Anything to avoid the phantoms that lurked through his dreams.
There was one dream in particular, that rattled him the most, and he would wake up shaken and cold with the memory of it. It was the first dream he had without color, and it was a dream about a boy, with light hair and light eyes, standing by the edge of a dark river, black in his distorted vision like a running pool of ink, and he was filling his pockets with stones.
It was more real than any of his other dreams had been. He could see and remember every freckle on the boy's face, every wrinkle in his clothing, every line of hair in staggering detail uncommon to dreams, and he didn't even know the boy. He could smell the river, becoming louder and louder and the still boy waded barefoot to its edge, turning to look at him, with vacant, troubled eyes. And the sky was blood red overhead with hanging clouds glowering down like impending doom. Resolutely the light eyed boy stepped into the water, past his knees, past his waist, past his shoulders. He wanted to call out, wanted to stop the boy, but he was rendered inexplicably mute, rooted to the spot where he stood. When the water rose above the boy's head, suddenly he was the light haired, light eyed boy drowning the middle of a dusky river, with stones in his pockets. The river turned blood red, like the sky, like the rest of his world with fleeting glimpses of colors he once recognized, flashing by too quick to be grasped. The boy was screaming. He was screaming. Water filled his mouth and lungs. Color turned into light and sound, exploding before his eyes. Damp. Heavy. Cold. Sinking.
He never woke until he was sure he had died.
He couldn't mention the nightmares to anyone else. It was all too easy to hide the bags under his eyes with his glasses. When he came down to breakfast and clutched his coffee cup so tightly his fingers turned chalk white, to keep his hands from trembling, everyone pretended like they didn't notice or if they did, they never spoke of it for fear of what would happen to them if they asked. The professor knew, like any telepath would, and offered him all sorts of solutions to his problem, from therapy, to medication, to new sleeping arrangements, but none that Scott was very eager to accept. Soon Charles Xavier discovered that you can lead a thirsty horse to all the water in the world, but you can't make it drink. Scott refused to believe that he was helpless and wouldn't let anyone within arms distance of him when it came to his problems. There was no doubt Jean knew that something was wrong as well. The silent accusation in her eyes after he spent another sleepless night in silence, spoke louder than words. He wanted to tell her. He wanted to tell her everything, but he couldn't run the risk of her thinking him weak, so he suffered in silence.
Another low note of thunder roared over the hammering rain bringing his mind back to the present. His eyes flickered wide open and began to wander aimlessly through the dark room. The shadows were all dyed red, the color of blood, the color of his dreams. He no longer dreamt in color. Despite the clamor of the storm raging outside the whole room felt strangely silent, too silent. He could hear himself think in sharpened clarity, and torrents of thoughts plummeted and bounced off walls like balls in a pinball game. He would not be sleeping tonight. There would be no blood red dreams to fight the repercussions of.
He pushed the sheets, which now bore the vivid images of brightly colored twister dots, off of him and sat up. When he had procured his sheets from the young master of ice, the damage had already been done, in bright permanent paint. The professor promised a new pair of sheets by tomorrow at Bobby's expense. Leaning back against the headboard of his bed he closed his eyes and lifted his glasses off his nose. Setting them beside him carefully, he began to massage the bridge of his nose and the areas behind his ears. A long sigh escaped him, and he wondered idly how to pass his time until morning. He reasoned with himself that it was in his best interest to get some sleep and not have to face Jean in the morning, but he couldn't.
Jean. She was an entirely new bag of problems dropped at his feet. Their friendship had started out so innocently. They were mutual sufferers of society's intolerance towards those who were different, and thus, they formed a bond almost instantly. He was always being teased by the others because his best friend was a girl, but he knew it was their jealousy talking. One would have to be blind not to notice Warren's crush on her and Bobby's long stares. He had always considered himself above falling for her, and now, only a few hours ago, he had almost kissed her, his best friend. The terrible thing about it came when he realized how badly he had wanted to kiss her. It was absurd. He tried desperately to deny it, but the more he thought about it, the more he wished he had done it. Just to see what it was like. That was all. Right? The excuse sounded stupid even in his own mind.
He didn't even know why he let her enter his mind. Lately it was becoming a task to think clearly in her presence, and at the time the idea seemed selfless and golden. He hadn't even thought of what could happen if something went wrong. He didn't want her to have to put up shields around him, and he figured if he could expose his mind to her a little bit at a time she wouldn't have to. Now that he was alone, he realized that he was afraid she would know his guilty thoughts about her. She would realize that he was just a silly boy who saw an Armageddon sky every time he looked up, who had dreams of drowning with stones in his pockets. He supposed it was just as well that it hadn't worked out, and yet, he couldn't help but feel that something still wasn't entirely right. It was a pea in the bedsprings of his thoughts. He knew it was there, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. It was almost like he could still feel the touch of her mind. But that was impossible. He shook off the thought.
Aimlessly, he rolled out of bed and put his glasses on again. The rain was still pounding tirelessly against his walls and windows with all the shades drawn. A flash of lightning lit up everything, and nipping at its heels came the thunder. He decided he could always sneak down to the kitchen and find something to eat. He traversed the floor of his bedroom, light as a cat, opened the door and slipped quietly out into the hallway.
The sound of the rain was amplified considerably out in the deserted hallway, but the hall lights were on making it easier to see. He slunk towards the stairs soundlessly and scamped down them two at a time. He made his way in the direction of the kitchen wondering when he would spot her. Jean always accompanied him on missions such as this, and if he tried to go alone, she had a way of just sensing he was awake and appearing behind him moments later. He didn't spot her this time.
Suddenly he stopped and listened. There was a sound coming from the west side of the mansion. He decided to drop his current quest and follow the noise. It soon became apparent that the noise was a song. The crystal clear melody traipsed over the sound of the rain outside, settling in his ears and leading him onward. He passed through a series of dark wood paneled corridors with the song always five steps in front of him. Finally, he found himself in the drawing room, and there he spotted her.
The drawing room was a large room with ornate carpet and decorations. Various pictures hung on the wall, and the few couches that were scattered across the floor looked far too expensive to touch, much less sit down on. The back wall had a line of floor length windows going across it, all covered halfway with costly white drapes. The only light was coming from a small desk lamp that was placed on a table in the corner. The whole room looked like the set of an old painting except for the music. It slowly wound its way around every object, so that Scott could almost taste the color of the room even if it still appeared in shades of red to his eyes.
Jean was barely visible behind the massive black piano she was seated at. Her eyes were downcast in concentration, so she did not see him at first. He was about to back out and leave before she noticed him, but her eyes snapped up and locked on his figure leaning in the doorway. The music stopped abruptly.
"Scott. Am I keeping you awake?" A simple question with so many double meanings, spoken so innocently.
Scott decided to play it casual, leaned on the doorframe with a nervous grin and crossed his arms nonchalantly, "No, you can't hear it from upstairs. I . . . just couldn't sleep," at the saddened look on her face he quickly altered his excuse with a shift of his arms, "I mean, the storm and all . . . kinda loud. Just thought I'd take a walk and stuff and . . ." He shrugged his shoulders and stopped when he began to trail off.
"Well, you don't have to stand around lurking in doorways, come in."
He stepped in and came to stand behind her, "Finish the song."
"Fine," She stretched out her fingers and placed them back on the keys.
Then the same intriguing song he had heard coming in started up again. He was entranced, not by the song, but by the way her hands glided effortlessly over the keyboard, pouring forth a melody from her fingertips like that's what they had always been made to do. She was playing it by memory. There was no music in front of her, and even if there was it would have been hard to read it in the dim lighting, but it sounded perfect and important. In places he could actually follow the movement of her fingers, but when the song became too fast, their dance slurred into fluid motions and became too hard to follow, leaving him only to marvel at the complexity.
Ever since the Professor had sat Jean at a piano, she had been a natural. He told her it would be important for her to learn to do two things at once, and playing the piano would be good for her. It had been, but not just for her. He had heard that particular song before. The thunder was still throwing a tantrum outside, but its cries were drowned in the song and became easier to ignore. Her fingers finished their gentle waltz across the keys and played out the last notes. Then she turned to look at him.
"Mozart's Rondo Alla Turca," She almost whispered, "It's one of my favorites."
"I don't know music," Scott admitted, "Well . . . classical music anyway, but it was pretty."
"I didn't expect you to," She said simply, "I just thought I'd take your mind off whatever is bothering you."
Scott felt slightly affronted by her bold assumption, but he realized that it wasn't really an assumption. It was obvious. Then he noticed that she wasn't dressed for bed at all, nor did she look like she planned on sleeping any time soon. He decided it was a good way to change the subject.
"Well, we've already talked about why I'm awake. How about you tell me why you're not in bed?" It was dodging her subtle charge, but she let it slide.
"The professor left this evening, and I want to be here when he gets back," She let her fingers mindlessly peruse the tops of the keys as she spoke, "He's bringing someone back."
"Someone, as in a student?" Scott asked.
"I don't know. I'm guessing that is the case, and I want to be there when they arrive," She was beginning to lightly trace another melody of another song she knew by heart with her fingertips.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Scott couldn't keep the irritated tone out of his voice.
"I was hoping you would finally get some sleep tonight," She sighed and looked all around the dark room, anywhere but at him, "Since that isn't the case . . ."
"You don't need to worry about me, Marvel Girl," He said, sliding down to sit beside her on the bench, "Just play that song," He gestured vaguely toward her vagrant fingertips.
A thin smile formed on her lips and another song flowed from her fingers drenching the keys in a deep resonant melody that Scott knew for a fact he had heard before. It was a pretty song, the kind that played in a high digital sounding pitch inside jewelry boxes, sometimes accompanied by dancing ballerinas, but played on the piano the song changed from a simple pretty tune into a religion. The rhythm was plumper, deeper, stronger, filling the entire room and the rooms beyond that. The song was bound to her heartstrings, and it showed in the way her whole body kept time with her hands in the wordless, nameless song that could almost bring one to their knees.
The rain was reduced now to a softer drumming, and the thunder was dwindling into indignant grumbles. The drawing room windows showed only the last remaining raindrops tumbling from the edges of the roof and into the blackness of the night. A peaceful silence was descending over the night, with a song filling in the cracks, broken only by the distant keening of thunder, and something else.
Her eyes jerked up from the piano. She heard it too. The song faded on her fingers, and they came to rest on the keys as if she had completely forgotten they existed. The spell broke with the off-key twang of neglect, and Scott also began to look around. There was defiantly a whimpering sound coming from somewhere mixed with a peculiar scratching noise.
Jean was softly on her feet before Scott could blink, and the look of concentration on her face told him everything he needed to know. She could feel whatever it was in her head.
"What is it?" He whispered.
She crept towards the windows on her toes and held up a hand for him to be quiet, "It's coming from over here."
He watched from a safe distance while she located the latch and swung one of the windows wide open. Then she climbed halfway out the window and began searching the surrounding bushes. He let his eyes wander nervously around the room and decided that one of the paintings on the wall depicting a hunting scene was of great interest and definitely worthy of closer inspection. He stood anxiously rocking from foot to foot, studying the painting and occasionally chancing a glance towards the window that his friend was still dangling halfway out of.
Jean continued to search the wet bushes for the source of the noise. She could feel distress in stereo, amplified severely in her head, scalding her senses with its intensity. She pushed another branch out of the way, and it snapped back to whack her in the face. A shriek of pain crawled up her throat a dug its claws in when a particularly sharp branch sliced through the skin on her check with a sharp prickling sting, but she swallowed it back, letting only a hiss of pain escape her clenched teeth. She made a renewed effort with the aid of her TK and held aside the branch. Then she saw it.
It was a trembling mass of blackish grey that resembled a wadded up dishrag. She almost didn't see it at first, curled up in a little ball against the bottom of the window, still keening and whimpering very softly. She tentatively reached out a hand and gently stoked what looked like its back with a finger. It squeaked and gave in to a violent shudder of surprise, but then it seemed to calm a bit. Its fur was matted, soaking wet and littered with bits of dirt and wood chips. Carefully she slid her hands around the little trembling bundle and picked it up.
Scott finally saw Jean reemerge from the window with a little squirming mass of black fur that looked like a rather large drowned rat. His eyes flew to her face, and he spotted the cut from the branch that marred the side of her face instantly. Blood was already starting to spill from it like crimson tears. He wanted nothing more than to tend to her immediately, but as it was, the drowned rat in her arms was of greater importance at the moment.
"Jean!" He almost shouted, "What is that?!"
Before she could speak the little furball yipped and wriggled more in her arms, sticking out its tiny black paws. She sat down on the carpet and set the muddy creature in front of her, without regard to the upholstery. She soothed some of the wood chips out of its fur, and then Scott noticed a little face, with floppy ears, a wet nose and wide black eyes. A puppy.
"I think, a black lab," Jean said plainly, as if he was the stupidest person on earth for not knowing.
"Where did he come from?" Scott sat down in front of her to get a better look at the animal.
The puppy had now rolled on its stomach as was sucking lightly on her fingers. Jean laughed slightly and shook her head, "I have no idea. She must belong to someone."
"She?"
"Yes she," Jean gave him another look, that made him feel stupid for speaking, "What do you suppose her name is?"
"We can't keep her Red! You know that," Scott admonished softy noting the look of attachment for the puppy Jean was already donning, "The professor would never hear of it."
"I wasn't suggesting that we keep her," Jean shot back quickly, "I was just thinking we ought to take her out of the rain and clean her up a bit. Then we can try and figure out who she belongs to."
"What if she belongs to no one? I mean, there isn't another house around here for miles," Scott had to admit that now with the puppy rolling around lazily on the floor playing with Jean's fingers, he was also starting to become attached, even if the smell of wet dog wasn't entirely pleasant.
"And what if she does and her owners are looking for her?" Jean protested, "How else would you explain a stray puppy wandering here?"
"Well, we might as well get her cleaned up. No point in getting the carpet any dirtier than it already is," Scott said sensibly.
Jean rolled her eyes and gently picked up the puppy again, "Okay, led on oh fearless protector of carpeting."
"Well, I think we should use my bathroom. Nobody will come into my room wondering what's going on," Scott led the way out of the drawing room choosing to ignore Jean's comment, "And remember you're the one that found her. You are going to explain her to the professor. Not me."
"So says you now," Jean giggled, marching after him.
"Yeah," Scott scowled, "So says I."
The rain had mostly dissipated now and the only sounds left were the lulling tickles of rainwater plunging from the trees onto the roof of the estate and gurgling in the gutters. The night had become mostly quiet again, so the two teens had to take great care to be absolutely silent on their way up the stairs and past occupied rooms. They had almost made it safely into Scott's room when the puppy made a playful noise and started to try and eat Jean's hair that was spilling over her shoulders and into her mouth.
Scott spun around and hissed at Jean to be quiet. Jean hissed back that the puppy did it, and began to silently scold her. She tried to extricate her hair from the puppy's jaws, but this only made her whimper louder. The two teens gave each other equally exasperated looks, shared a moment of panicked pantomime while trying to agree what to do and finally broke into a run, crossing the rest of the distance to Scott's room fairly quickly.
Scott reached the door first and flung the dark wooden antique open hastily, causing it to collide with a dresser sitting adjacent to it against the wall with a resounding smack, creating more noise then they began with. He hopped back furiously and almost stumbled, spurting curses under his breath when the door rebounded back and sent needles of pain dancing through his foot like flames. Jean winced. The puppy chirped again. Through the grey spots that were forming in his vision as a result of the pain, Scott grabbed Jean's arm and pulled her into the room just in time. The door at the end of the hall opened only seconds later.
Warren emerged from his room with the last dregs of sleep still clinging to his eyes. He spotted Scott and advanced on him through the dim haze of his sleep-clogged vision. Scott frantically shoved Jean and the puppy behind the insolent door in the space next to the dresser, out of Warren's sight. Then he stepped out into the hall to confront him, still hopping on one foot and trying not to start cursing.
"Dude Blinkie," Warren's normally proper aristocratic drool was sandpaper with his lack of sleep, "What's with all the smashing and barking in the middle of the night man?"
"I was just going to get a glass of water and then I banged my foot against the door," Scott pretended like he had just gotten up and faked a large yawn, "Though I can't explain the barking. You might wanna ask Bobby about that."
"Good thinking dude," Warren nodded sleepily, "You never know what's going with that one. I'll go check it out and report back to you."
"No!" Scott said a little quicker than he meant to, "I mean, please don't. I'll probably be back to sleep by then and I don't wanna be woken up by your banging on that godforsaken door."
"Alright then, you just show that door who's boss, and I'll report to you in the morning," Warren continued to stand there long after Scott thought he was done, and it was beginning to annoy him.
"Well, are you gonna go see what's up with Bobby or something?" Scott tried his best to mask his impatience, but his resolve was crumbling.
Finally, the idea seemed to penetrate Warren's sleep fogged brain, "Oh, right dude. I'll go do that."
As he shuffled away towards Bobby's room Scott let out the breath he didn't realize he had been holding. He didn't know which was worse, the unnatural amount of times Warren used the word 'dude' when he was half asleep, or that he hadn't been the slightest bit suspicious when Scott said he had got up to get a drink of water, even though there was a facet in his room.
He slide back into his room soundlessly and closed the door to reveal Jean still holding the little black puppy in the corner snickering softly, "I had no idea you like polka-dots."
Scott's mouth opened and closed a few times in puzzlement and then he remembered the cryptic painting scrawled across his bed sheets. He sighed and brought a finger to his lips indicating for her to be quiet, and then led her towards the back of the room where the bathroom was located.
"You can put the dog in the tub I guess," Scott said upon closing the bathroom door behind them, "Just hang on."
He began to hurriedly sweep all the various bottles and soaps out of the way and into a pile on the floor. Soon the bathtub was sparkly clean and devoid of all objects. The pile on the floor beside the bathtub had grown to monstrous proportions, so Scott shoved it a little further out of sight and pretended like it didn't exist. Jean watched with amusement, but she didn't say a word throughout the whole procession.
Finally, Scott made a sweeping gesture with his arms towards the tub, signifying that he was done with his task. Jean plopped the puppy down in the center of the tub, and she immediately began to romp around with curiosity, trying to figure out what to make of the slippery ivory surface. Scott turned on the facet, and that produced a startled bark out of her.
"Is it okay if she starts barking like that?" Jean asked with a hint of trepidation clinging to the corners of her words.
"Yeah," Scott replied calmly, watching the black lab lope to the far edge of the tub in attempt to escape the small flow of water, "My bathroom in pretty sound proof, especially with the water running."
Much to the puppy's dismay and the humans' entertainment, she slipped and slid on her back while trying to crawl up the side of the tub, and drifted right into the water. Then she discovered that the water was not at all cold and unpleasant feeling like the storm she had been trapped in. It was warm, and the giant pool that was now forming was a source of limitless entertainment. She began to merrily bound about in the oversized puddle, delighting in the huge splashes that resulted, completely oblivious to the fact that the majority of the water was splashing out of the tub and drenching the two humans kneeling beside it.
Jean finally got her hands around her and held the little ball of energy still while Scott tried to soak off all the mud. The dog continued to twitch with excitement as the two humans worked the debris out of her liquid ebony fur, and decided that this knew pursuit must be some sort of game. She wiggled away from their reach and happily romped around the bathtub still making little yipping noises.
A considerable amount of time passed before she was adequately cleaned off, in which the majority of the surface area of the bathroom floor became waterlogged and slippery, Scott and Jean got practically soaked to the skin, and the puppy couldn't have been happier. The soft lights of the bathroom glittered in the pools of water on the floor and simmered into a blissful damp haze around the three soaked beings. The only thing remotely unpleasing about the atmosphere was the ever-present smell of wet dog, permeating the fresh smelling air, but that could be ignored.
Scott turned off the faucet. Jean grabbed one of the fuzzy blue towels hanging on the rack to dry the puppy off, but Scott shouted in protest, so in the end they used a small white towel that was lumped at the bottom of the stack. During the argument over which towel to use, the black lab puppy had worked up such a curiosity about the way the water was swirling and syphoning into the drain that she began to creep over towards it, nose first.
Needless to say, when the towel came down upon her without warning, she was quite surprised. She was dragged out of the tub still squirming like a fighter, tongue hanging out, tail wagging, trying to nip the hands pulling her away from the mesmerizing drain. She was finally stationed on Scott's counter top, and Jean dried her, while Scott dried the floor. They worked in silence for a few moments that stretched into an eternity, each completely absorbed in their own task. Finally, Jean cleared her throat and sliced through stagnant air with a question.
"What should we call her?" Jean asked innocently, working to towel off each paw, while the puppy skittered around the counter top making the job almost impossible.
"Nothing," Scott said dismissively from his position trying to mop up the water on the floor, "That's the way you'll get attached to her."
"Well we can't just call her 'dog'!" Jean quipped, turning from her task to put her hands on her hips, ratty towel still in hand and now covered in dog fur, "Lighten up Mr. Grumpypants."
"Why not?" Scott asked artlessly sitting up to look at her, "'Dog' seems like a good name to me."
"Scott!" Jean groaned, throwing the towel at his head.
Scott let the towel slip down his face, from where it nailed him in the forehead, to his lap. Then he clenched it in his first, still spitting towel fibers and dog fur. His friend was still standing there leaning against the counter wearing a very satisfied smirk.
"Nice one Red," he growled sardonically.
He glared at her, and was ready to chuck it back at her again when he noticed the cut on her cheek for the second time. His fists relaxed automatically. It was still as red as ever, or blackish in his case, and perfectly neat, like someone had purposefully ran a nail from the top to the bottom of her cheek instead of an angry bush attack. The blood was smeared now, as a result of her squabble with him over the towel and being recently soaked. All of a sudden a he felt the guilt rise up inside him, creating a painful swell in his chest. He hadn't even asked her about it yet.
"What?" Her voice broke through his thoughts, and he realized he must have been staring.
His cheeks flushed with embarrassment. With a nervous smile he ran a finger across his cheek, indicating the cut on her own, "Are you okay?"
"Yeah," Jean muttered anxiously sweeping some of her hair behind her shoulders, "It doesn't really hurt anymore."
"Let me see it," Scott stood up, tossing the towel aside into the heap of bottles and soaps next to the tub, "You really need to clean it."
She stood her ground with her arms crossed over her chest to convince him of the verity in her words, but when he reached out to touch the cut she flinched away. He cornered her against the counter with his body, and her hands flew up pushing him away.
"Don't touch it," Her voice quivered, "I'm fine."
"Jean," Scott spoke her named so delicately, as if he was scared the word would break and his world would be shattered into a million pieces that had once been four letters, and gently grabbed her wrists moving her hands out of the way, "Just let me see it."
"Scott . . . " She pleaded softly, unable to finish the sentence as the words died on her lips.
Suddenly all other sounds seemed to wither and die in the parching whirl of emotions that had swelled up between the two of them. Words were not enough to crack the quiet, and every last one perished before ever reaching their lips, falling witness to a silence that they could never break. Her hands fell to her sides of their own accord. He was emboldened by her reaction.
Scott's fingertips brushed against the skin of her cheek again, but she did not flinch. He started by tracing the outline of her jaw and then leisurely worked his way upwards, towards the bright red gash. Her breath caught in her throat, though she could not quite explain why. The silence whispered things in her ears, things she had been denying for longer than memory could sustain, things she did not want to hear, but one covert look at him through her eyelashes, and she knew it was all true. He was leaning even closer into her personal space. She gulped. This was replaying the events of the morning all over again. She never even felt it when he finally stroked a lazy finger down the length of her cut, she just lost herself in the terrifying sensation of it all. She was lost. He was lost. The bathroom was completely silent.
He felt her tense up and assumed at first that it was because of pain, but then he noticed her staring straight into his glasses and finding his unseen eyes dead on. The color green had never looked so vivid in all his life. The silence crackled between them, and he knew that this was his chance to see exactly what his best friend tasted like after waiting forever. She was practically inviting him to do so with that enticing stare. His hand had unexpectedly crept down to cup her chin, and his body threw caution and his mind to the wind, drawing her nearer to him senselessly.
The rapture of the moment was exhilarating. She stood up higher, bracing herself on the counter with trembling hands, and he leaned in lower, drawing her nearer with the gentlest tugs of his fingertips. Nothing was going to stop this now. It had been coming for years, pulling forward, never ceasing, drawing them inexplicably together with a force as undeniable as gravity until they orbited each other perilously just waiting for the crash.
When there were mere millimeters of air separating them there was indeed a crash, followed by a loud thud and a yelp, earsplitting to the silence, slashing it in half like butter. Their eyes flickered open dazedly at first as if the disturbance had only half registered. Then Scott returned to awareness first and leapt backwards guilty, fearing that somehow they had been caught in the act, and half expected that if he turned around or glanced in the mirror he would find the Professor or Dr. McCoy standing behind them with a disapproving look. Jean was quicker to grasp what had really happened. She whirled around towards the counter and found that the puppy had slipped off of it, bringing with her a breakable soap dish that had smashed when she hit the ground. Now, she was yipping frantically and scratching at the closed door as if she had become possessed by her fall.
"Professor," Understanding hit her in a wave, "He's back."
At the word professor Scott twitched again, but with the end of her sentence he relaxed. Jean was already racing out of the bathroom before he could blink, and he scurried after her to catch up. They failed to notice the black puppy still tailing them.
Warren, who was just walking back to his room in a very disgruntled state after being told by Bobby that he didn't have to slightest clue what was going on, was surprised to say the least when he saw Jean Grey dash out of Scott's room, followed closely by Scott himself. He watched silently, blinking a few times to make sure he wasn't imagining the little black blur that was following Scott, and told himself some things are not meant to be understood.
They reached the entrance hall just in time to run right into the Professor, who was escorting a very timid looking new student into the mansion. To say she was striking would be an understatement. The girl peering around nervously at Charles's side was beautiful, with stark white hair and crystal blue eyes that sharply contrasted her dark skin. She was about their age, give or take a few years, judging by looks of her. Her lips were parted in awe as she gazed around the inside of the house, and it was only when Jean and Scott skidded right up to her that she turned her gaze to them.
"Ah," Said the professor with delight, taking their sudden intrusion in stride, "Here are some of you classmates now. Ororo Munroe, meet Jean Grey and Scott Summers."
The Ororo's lips formed a thin line, and she addressed them both with a nod and a dismissive, "Hello" obviously she wasn't entirely convinced that she wanted to be there.
Then the white haired girl returned to gazing and pacing with a slight frown on her face, completely ignoring Scott and Jean's attempts at greetings. For all the ignoring she did, they studied her curiously, trying to figure out what sort of power she could possibly have.
Then the puppy came running in and began to frolic around Jean's legs. The redhead turned pale in an instant, when everyone else spotted her. She had completely forgotten about the puppy, and now she was bouncing around, mostly dry, with her little tail wagging back and forth excitedly. Scott began to stare at his feet silently denying involvement, and if it was at all possible Jean turned paler still when the puppy boldly trotted over to the professor's wheelchair, and began to sniff the newcomer curiously.
"Oh!" All three of them looked up quickly at the unexpected sound of Ororo's voice, "You have a puppy!"
A grin spread across her face and she dropped down to her knees and beckoned the lab towards her. The puppy did not object and romped merrily over to the next newcomer. Ororo seemed to be right at home now that she was cheerfully cuddling the energetic puppy, who was trying at every opportunity to lick her face.
"I suppose we do," Said the professor slowly, eyeing Jean and Scott steadily as he spoke the words.
The platinum haired girl evidently hadn't even noticed the interaction and continued right along, "So what's her name?"
The professor waited with interest for one of them to speak up, but they both stood for a few moments with their mouths opening and closing rather like beached fish. Thankfully, they were spared for the moment when Warren slumped down the stairs muttering indiscernible things under his breath, looking considerably ruffled.
"Warren," The professor smiled pleasantly, "So good of you to join us. I was just introducing our new student Ororo Munroe. Ororo, this is another one of your classmates, Warren Worthington."
"The third," Warren reminded him, trying to smile widely at Ororo and doing a poor job of it.
Then his eyes turned into saucers when he caught sight of the dog Ororo was petting. The black creature trailing Scott did in fact exist, and nobody seemed to care too much about it. He was about to say something, but he was quickly cut off by the professor before he began.
"Warren, could you please help me carry Ororo's stuff up to her room?" The professor asked indicating towards a single well sized suitcase sitting in the middle of the floor, "I'm sure everyone must be exhausted from staying up this late."
Warren shrugged and shouldered the suitcase without complaint, and the professor led him towards the elevator. Ororo reluctantly gave up the puppy and followed them.
Jean turned to Scott and put her hands on her hips, "I think that was the professor's way of saying we should go to bed . . ."
Scott nodded at her, but remained standing exactly where he was.
". . . but you're not," Jean finished slowly, raising her red tinged eyebrows.
"What are you? My mother?" Scott glowered, "I'll go to bed whenever I want."
"Not on my watch," Jean's voice became dangerously low, "It's nearly two o'clock in the morning, and I am not just going to stand by and pretend like I don't notice you staying up all night again."
Jean led the way, and a very bewildered Scott followed her back up the stairs. She ushered into his room, and Scott waited for her to shut the door in his wake, leaving him alone, but she stepped inside and sat down on his bed as if it was the most natural thing to do. He stared at her in puzzlement.
"Your not getting off the hook that easily," She laughed, shutting the door soundly with her TK.
He continued to give her a speechless look, so she continued, "Now, you have to lay down."
They stared each other down, Jean from her position on the bed, and Scott, from his stance across the room, each determined not the be the first to back down. She wanted him on the bed, but somehow Scott didn't think that having Jean in his bed would make him think sleepy thoughts at the present moment. The situation seemed downright dangerous, but he knew he had already lost the battle. It was only a matter of time before she got him over there. The puppy, who had somehow found her way into the room, hopped onto the bed hopefully wagging her tail.
"Well, at least somebody can take directions," Jean glared across the room at him.
With a little telekinetic pull that rose in his fingers like static electricity, Scott found himself walking towards the battered graffiti covered sheets, and before he knew it, he had plopped down on the other side of the bed. The puppy had settled down against one of the pillows, and was beginning to doze off, but she was still regarding them curiously through one half open eye.
Jean was smirking at him, "You have to lay down and relax."
She crawled over and placed both her palms on his chest. Then she pushed him lightly into a horizontal position, and Scott was anything but relaxed. She was leaning over him in the darkness of his room, red hair spilling everywhere, with her palms still on his chest and her eyes burning a hole through his glasses, bottling the silence and making it her own. He was in trouble.
She realized seconds later that it was a taught line she was venturing across and hastily she snapped it back into place, pulling her hands away, only to replace them around his head, in the same position she had when she had ventured into his mind, "Scott, you have to relax if this is ever going to work. I'm not going into your mind, I'm just trying to help you sleep."
He tried to obey her, but his mind locked and his muscles clenched into rigid uncertainty, partially due to her close proximity and partially because of the results of her last attempt to do something like this. Then an almost surreal sense of peace hit him out of nowhere and drifted into his thoughts, melding with them so he couldn't tell the distinguish between the two. He fought to keep his eyes open but it was no use, sleep covered him like a blanket within moments, and not a single dream flitted through his lazy mind.
Almost immediately after Scott's soothed breathing started, the same peace invaded Jean's mind, sizzling back across the two way link that was being born. Drowsiness hit her in a tranquil wave of serenity, pulling at her eyelids until they became too heavy to bear. The strange chemical reaction was not entirely unwelcome. Without thinking, she sank down onto the bed and slipped into the oblivion of slumber.
Quick Note: Thank you to everyone who reviewed. I wasn't even going to post the next part until I saw your responses. I wrote this a long time ago and when I read it over it sounded terrible. Look for the next post on the 12th. Till then, school's keeping me busy.
Disclaimer: I still don't own X-Men
SA7 IceDragon5788@hotmail.com