Part Four – To be, or not to be, why am I asking myself this question?
A/N: much thanks of Fata Morgana, who pointed out that Northstar was never the leader of Alpha Flight. I'll be correcting that once I've finished the fic. I've never managed to get hold of any of the Alpha Flight comics, so my knowledge of Northstar comes from any x-men interaction.
I know I said I'd probably update this every day, but inspiration decided to skip the middle bit of the story, so it's been a bit hard to write. This and the next chapter were originally all one, but it ended up huge. So now this one's a bit short. Oh well.
Oh, and if 'mobile phone' appears somewhere instead of 'cell phone', sorry again. I'm English, so I actually have to think to call it a 'cell'.
Apparently not.
In retrospect it hadn't exactly been a well thought out idea. If Bobby had Jean Paul's number, so did the rest of the X-men, and chances were they'd tried his cell already.
And the guy had probably looked down at his caller ID and chucked the thing out of his window. Bobby could imagine it, sticking out of the snow and ringing helplessly. Snow lighting up as the face did, different colours.
It was kind of a sad image. If Bobby could paint, he'd have painted it. Sold it for millions. Come on, it was better than that filthy bed that woman in Britain had sold. Modern art was all about sensationalism. Bobby could be Sensational. Take off his shirt and he was walking art.
Actually... He posed in front of the mirror. He'd only bought the full length mirror when this had started. The light above wasn't good for this, but if he opened the curtains it came flooding through him, reflecting off the mirror and around the room. There was the wall behind him, his favourite posted and the edge of the chest of drawers. Up towards the top the ice was thicker again, more purple. He could see the beginnings of veins.
The point was, it didn't look so bad. Of course, when Jean Paul had seen it you could still see the traces of organs. That was probably a bit creepier, right? This was almost pretty. Like if he caught the light at the right angles – yes, left a bit, yes, that angle – then he filled with rainbows. Like the cell phone's light on the snow.
He sighed. The edges of the ice were raw and slightly sticky, but not as red as he'd expected. Expected? Hoped. He wondered if he really was bleeding water now. Whether it was water everywhere, or just around the ice. Whether his brain was ice as well, or still flesh fed with water. Might be worth going to Hank, to find out. It would be worth knowing. How far had the affliction spread, internally? Was he going to find his limbs filling with blood clots with nothing to move the heavy liquid around any more? What was going to happen to his brain?
He wandered into his small bathroom and picked up a razor. He admired the light on the edge for a second, mind elsewhere, back with the cell phone and the snow. He worried that he was obsessing over that image. Maybe it had some Freudian significance or something. Phone probably meant penis, right? Most things did. Oh, except baldness, Bobby remembered. He hadn't been able to look at the Professor straight for weeks after learning about that. He'd had to tell Hank one day before his sides split. They'd laughed about how strange Freud had been. Honestly, who else would come up with the idea that baldness equalled castration?
Bobby pressed the razor to his wrist, still chuckling at old jokes. The cold brief touch of metal brought him out of his reverie. He chucked it into the sink violently. What was he thinking? Was he going to start cutting himself now? Another cry for help. First the insane bitterness to everyone else, then disappearing for days, then would he be cutting and taking hundreds of paracetamol?
Bobby shook his head firmly. That was going to be the line he would not cross. That had to be one, somewhere. And even if he was slitting his wrists in the name of science, it wasn't the right thing to do. The right thing was to go downstairs, tell Hank hat was happening to him, and let a professional deal with it. And not whine about dying alone.
Even if they were pretty poor friends for letting him reach a state where he was thinking about doing these things. Honestly, how would they feel? Poor Bobby Drake, killed himself with sleeping pills because no one thought to check on him. No one forced him to tell them what was wrong. No one imagined that happy, cheerful Bobby Drake, the joker and clown, could have serious problems. Honestly, did they know the meaning of 'defence mechanism'?
He was shaking, violently. There was frost curling around the sink and he heard a pipe burst, somewhere. The water in the toilet crackled. Bobby let his head fall and clung to the sink to remain upright, fighting tears he knew would freeze on his face. He had to top this. He had to stop blaming them. Help was a handful of words away. Not even that. Just walk up to Hank and take off his shirt, and then they'd be all over him. Wouldn't they?
He sniffed. That was the kicker, of course. He knew they wouldn't recoil in disgust like Jean Paul. He wasn't scared of dying, not now he technically had. Even being stuck in one position wasn't too terrifying. No, what Bobby was scared of, and he forced himself to look himself in the eye in the mirror as he said it aloud, what he was scared of was:
"What if they say I'm making a fuss about nothing?"
He turned back to go into his room but for some reason, kept his eyes on his reflection. He used to play games with himself, seeing how much of his head he could see, watching how the eyes appeared to stay in the same place while the head moved. But this time, as he reached the furthest he could see, it went abruptly out of focus. Like there was something in the corner of his eye.
Bobby snapped his head back around and stepped up to the small bathroom mirror until his nose was touching it. Hands clenched on the sink he stared at the corner of his eye. A moan escaped his throat.
It was there. The ice was there. Just spider-webbing its way out from the corner of his eye. Not too visible yet, but obviously growing. New.
The damn stuff was no longer just growing from Black Tom's wound. Maybe it had moved through the blood (water?), or maybe it was just launching its attack from all angles anyway. Spontaneous growth. Bobby's head dropped and he felt the crown of his head rest against the mirror. Now he did want to slit his wrists, and not under any scientific pretext.
Instead, he stood up. He walked away from the mirror, out of the bathroom. He didn't look at the full length mirror. He pulled on a shirt and put on his favourite sunglasses. He sat on the bed. He didn't cry.
He was still sitting and not crying when his alarm went off. He stared at it uncomprehendingly for a second. Morning already? He hadn't even slept. Just stared at the wall and kept his mind so carefully blank Buddhist monks would have envied his meditational skills.
It was morning. That meant shaving, right? Getting ready to teach. Shirt and tie and no sunglasses. Hah!
Bobby shot himself only the most cursory of glances in the mirror. None of the ice was visible, but he really looked like shit. Five o'clock shadow, rings under his eyes that were beginning to make him look like his secondary mutation was a panda, greasy and limp hair. Looked like he'd been put through the ringer. He had, emotionally. Looked like he was recovering from the worst hangover in history.
Heh, like the students would care. They probably would think he'd been out drinking, and like him more for it. He was closer to their age than most. He was a popular teacher. He was funny. He was cool. He was approachable.
He was going mildly insane, but oh well. Anyone who knew him had come to that conclusion when he'd offered to teach accountancy.
He grabbed a video from the shelf and scooped up his lesson plan from the floor with one foot. Today, the different types of accountancy. Something nice and non stressful so he could maybe even get some sleep.
He woke to the sounds of "...dull, dull, dull, dull, dull!" Ah, yes, Monty Python's chattered accountants sketch. So that was a very short nap.
"Bo- Mr Drake?" The voice was unmistakable. Bobby kicked his legs off of the desk and set up.
"Hey, Mr McCoy," he grinned. There was something so amusing about using surnames. It was like playing mummies and daddies as kids. Perhaps the others were right about his maturity if he still found it funny.
"I was wondering if I could speak to you in private."
"Now?" If Bobby had still had a stomach, it would have curdled. "I'm teaching."
"You were sleeping," one of the students pointed out, smothering a laugh.
"Oi," Bobby waved a finger at the boy in mock admonition. "Hush now."
"Bobby." Hank's voice was gently insistent.
"I'm coming," Bobby sighed. "You lot keep quiet and, I dunno, watch the video until it runs out. If you 'get' it, you're probably British."
As he followed Hank out of the classroom he began to feel distinctly sick. It made no sense, what with not having a stomach, but Bobby figured it was psychosomatic and left it at that. He had no idea how to cure psychosomatic sickness. Maybe imaginary antacids?
"I'm... surprised to see you teaching," Hank said hesitantly. He seemed to be leading Bobby somewhere. The Iceman didn't object to the walk.
He shrugged. "I guess I don't look a hundred percent, but I feel pretty good," he lied.
"Bobby," Hank sighed heavily. "Look, let's not be idiots, okay?" He stopped him in the middle of the corridor. "No jargon, no jokes, yes?"
"Okay," Bobby swallowed.
"Something is wrong with you. What?"
Bobby closed his eyes against a wave of dizziness. "You said you'd let me tell you when I was ready," he whispered.
Hank closed a hand over Bobby's shoulder. "I'm asking you as a friend, Bobby. When we reach the professor's office I'm going to have to ask you as a fellow x-man, I don't want to have to hear it like that."
Bobby stared at him. "We're going to Xavier's office? Why?"
"Bobby..."
Bobby shook his head and stepped back. "I won't be forced, Hank. I won't!"
"Calm down, please. There's no need to get hysterical," Hank said soothingly. "Everyone's worried about you, Bobby. Xavier is talking to Annie right now. I..." he glanced away. "I'm a little hurt that she knows and I don't."
"As a friend or as a professional?" Bobby breathed.
Hank looked pained. "As a friend, Bobby, of course as a friend. Why are you so defensive? Did we do something to hurt you, to make you doubt our friendship?"
Bobby wrapped his arms around himself. "No," he admitted, "but I did anyway and now I feel like scum, which I not want I need on top of everything else."
"Once it's out in the open we can sort it out," Hank insisted. "Please, Bobby."
Bobby shook his head again. "If Annie's telling anyway, I don't see why I should have to. I don't want to see anyone. Just... leave me alone."
Hank looked disappointed, but appeared to give in. "This won't take long, Bobby." He started down the corridor again.
Bobby was about to follow him when a thought occurred to him. "This is because of Northstar, isn't it?"
Hank visibly winced and Bobby started retreating before he could begin to speak. "You were the last to see him," Hank began to turn around. "Annie said you might- Hey, where are you going?"
"Dunno!" Bobby called back over his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Hank, I am."