Title: A Series Of Observations
Author: furygrrl
Archive: Just ask first
Rating: T - rated for language and hints of sexuality
Disclaimer: Not mine
Yrch Monger - Funny you should mention the Jean/Remy pairing - the follow-up to Trial By Fire that I'd planned ages ago will feature them prominently. Now if my TBF muse would just wake up... ;) Thanks for the ongoing encouragement!
A. Ceretta - Not a fan of pee, eh? ;D Thanks for the review - I can always count on you to give me perma-grin.
Reeny - Hee! I guess my anti-JOTT sentiments are pretty well-known by now. I'm just glad you enjoy what I write despite the lack of your favourite couple. Thanks!
Purity Black - I must give credit where credit is due - It was your Power9 fic that rekindled my interest in Jeance and resurrected this story. You rock PB:)
Part Six: Crossroads
Jean tried to stalk angrily away from the cottage, but the glorified dirt lane known as High Point Road, littered with sharp rocks and hidden depressions - and now dangerously slick with the sudden rain - seemed unable to accommodate, fairly promising a twisted ankle if she didn't proceed with caution. Forced to slow her pace and step with care, denied both the satisfaction of her righteously determined exit and the ability to parlay some of that bubbling fury into action, the flames of her ire were fanned ever higher.
First I waste more than a year of my life on that disgusting bastard, and then my best pair of shoes, she fumed silently, looking down at her bare feet as they stomped their way through a muddy puddle.
Dirtbag should be thanking his lucky stars I didn't have a big, pointy stick to throw at him instead...
At the thought of those expensive designer projectiles making painful acquaintance with Duncan's head, Jean was mollified somewhat, and she was able to quell the murderous instinct currently urging her to locate just such a stick, and return to the house to rectify the oversight.
"Stab it right through that portion of his anatomy he values most," she growled, viciously swiping at a raindrop on her cheek that the small telekinetic shield over her head had failed to stop. "Or at least try to, damn thing's probably as tiny as his brain."
Dark amusement filtered through the anger as Jean contemplated the validity of the rumors she'd overheard but always discounted - the ones perpetuated by some of the football players after inadvertently glimpsing an unclothed Duncan in the locker room - but it dissipated the further down the road she got.
Thanks to the shift in weather, it was colder than she'd anticipated, a condition that trudging barefoot through ankle-deep potholes of mucky water wasn't improving. And while the mind-induced barrier between her and the storm's icy deluge helped keep her dry to some extent, it wasn't big enough to offer more protection than any standard umbrella would, allowing spears of liquid to spatter against her skin with increasing frequency as the storm picked up.
After a quick inner debate, Jean regretfully dismissed the idea of enlarging her invisible shelter, the thought of having to sustain such a shield, coupled with the long walk back to civilization, prompting phantom stress-related pains to flicker like warnings in her head.
Why Kitty and Kurt felt the need to take off and strand me, I'll never know, she grumbled internally, not wanting to dwell on the possibilities the young lovers' absences could be attributed to. Instead, she focused on Duncan - the real culprit behind her current predicament.
"My being cold and wet, wandering through a storm, in the dark, without shoes, a phone, or a change of clothes...it's all his fault," she tallied, once again feeling foolish for leaving without first retrieving her overnight bag from the guest room, for allowing anger to take the place of good judgement. Jean paused in her tracks and shot a look over her shoulder, trying to gauge the distance back to the house, but there was nothing but rain-filled gloom behind her. Huffing out an irritated sigh, wrapping her arms around her upper body for warmth, she resumed walking in the direction she'd chosen for better or worse.
Too late to go back for my stuff now, she told herself firmly, ignoring the beckoning lure of her comfy sweatshirt, dry running shoes, and the ride home her cell phone would assuredly summon. She shook her head resolutely, for once not caring if her pride was making her behave irrationally. Besides anger, it was the only thing sustaining her, keeping her from succumbing to Duncan's betrayal. Without the influence of those all-consuming emotions, she'd feel nothing but hurt.
And I'll be damned if I cry over that asshole, her inner voice swore vehemently, her eyes pricking hotly seconds later despite the promise.
She blinked rapidly, willing the hateful sensation away.
No, I won't give in, won't go back to the house, not after what happened. I'd rather die than give him - or anyone - the satisfaction of seeing me like this, she continued silently when the threat of tears had passed.
And I'll be perfectly fine out here on my own. The rain can't last forever, and I'm sure I saw a gas station on the way up, maybe a couple of miles down the main road. I'll call the Institute from there...
Feeling better now that she had a plan - however tentative - in place, Jean was finally able to think about other things. She pushed all thoughts of disastrous parties, backstabbing friends, and cruelly spoken words, to the back of her mind, determined not to fret over them any longer. The soft roll of thunder overhead, mud squishing up through her toes, the damp smell of the surrounding forest, bits of gravel digging into her heels, the hushed cadence of raindrops striking the trees and their remaining leaves; they were what she focused on, what filled her uncluttered head, what helped to soothe the lingering flutter of turbulence in her belly.
She gratefully embraced the nature of those primitive distractions; they were effortless and safe and cathartic - they allowed her mind to revert to unthinking blankness, to drift.
And drift it did...straight to a pair of brown eyes that she'd last seen glistening with tears.
Rubbing arms that suddenly went to gooseflesh at the unbidden image, Jean bit at her lower lip in vexation and attempted to banish the memory to the same darkness thoughts of Duncan had been relegated to.
It proved an exercise in futility.
The unwanted gaze stubbornly remained, floating within her skull like two chips of burnished copper, until they slowly coalesced into something more: a furrowed brow, a strong chin, lips that were neither full nor thin, but always seemed to be twisted in some mocking semblance of a smile. It was a face Jean knew well, belonging to a boy she barely knew at all.
Like I'd want to, Jean thought to herself with a shake of her head, her sour mood bleeding into tartly petulant cynicism. She met the imaginary stare of Lance Alvers with that of her mind's eye, and regarded the vision of him critically.
His was a chiseled countenance as hard and unyielding as the earth he had power over. It inspired no illusions of warmth or compassion, no indication it could soften with either laughter or kindness; it was a landscape barren of joy and incapable of masking anything deeper than the sarcastic disdain he'd always favoured her with.
Or so she tried to tell herself, even as her subconscious responded to those harsh sentiments with a slightly different perspective. All at once, she was bombarded with remembered images, a flood of truth her annoyed convictions had no chance of standing against.
Lance...sitting under a tree...stroking the wings of a moth with uncharacteristic gentleness.
Lance...head thrown back...laughing at the sight of Scott wearing Duncan's lunch.
Lance...kneeling on a stone pathway...silently grieving the loss of a girl he still loved.
Lance...smiling...
Smiling...at her.
The memory of that single expression, of the accompanying warmth she'd seen in his eyes, stirred an answering heat to wakefulness from some place deep inside of her. It flared to life and swirled like a golden rush through her veins before she could catch it, chasing away the chill of the rain, sending her heartbeat tripping erratically.
"God, what's wrong with me?" Jean groaned softly in exasperation, bewildered by her body's increasingly distressful reactions to a person who hated her, and who was disliked intensely in return.
Had she maintained her present train of thought, she might have managed to sort the situation out to some degree of satisfaction, but ill-luck - in the form of a car and an extremely large puddle - chose that precise moment to intervene.
Jean heard the growl of an engine a few seconds before the blinding glare of headlights cut through the darkness behind her, and, not feeling wretched enough to contemplate suicide, she moved to the very edge of the road to avoid being run over. She paused there, turning into the light to ensure the driver saw her, which, judging by the car's slight change in approach, he apparently did.
The vehicle swerved around her, but not before sending a shockingly cold wave of water cascading over her form, drenching her both instantly and absolutely.
Stunned, blinking water from her eyes, Jean stared after the fading glow of red taillights, shivering with a mixture of disbelief, indignation, and the chill of her unexpected shower. When those twin flickers of crimson had winked out of existence and only the rain swept night remained, she started forward yet again, obliterating her teke shield with an angry jerk of her head.
"No point trying to stay dry now," she sniped bitterly, her dripping frame shuddering as icy drops slapped against her exposed skin and trailed down her cheeks like the tears she'd so diligently repressed. She kicked at a puddle in her frustration, only succeeding in splashing mud and stubbing her toe hard enough to hurt, making her curse loudly. Bending down to rub away the stinging sensation, eyes watering with salty liquid degrees warmer than the rain, she bowed her head and swallowed the self-pitying tightness in her throat, reminding herself that she was better - stronger - than that.
Feeling sorry for yourself will get you nowhere, her inner voice chided.
I know, Jean nodded in mute response, lifting her dispirited gaze beyond the shadowed forest road, up to the blackened, lightning-veined clouds above. I just can't believe how this night's turned out - Duncan, walking home like this, that inconsiderate jerk that just drove by... I mean, can't anything go right?
A grumble of thunder met that plaintive, unspoken query, leaving Jean to wonder if the ominous sound was the heaven's way of telling her not to be so quick in thinking all was said and done.
After all, the night wasn't over yet.
Finally locating his jeep, and seeing that he had, in fact, left the windows down, Lance let out a muttered string of four-letter words.
He hurriedly opened the driver's side door and touched both the dash and his seat, testing the level of wetness, a relieved breath sighing from his lips when his groping fingers only encountered slight dampness. He hopped inside, leaning across the passenger's seat to roll up the far window before seeing to his own, and stuck the key in the ignition.
The engine was permitted to idle for a few minutes while Lance pulled off his sopping vest and shirt, and used them to mop up the few rivulets of water that clung to the steering wheel and stereo face. After tossing the unwearable garments to the floor, he reached for the duffel bag he'd stowed behind his seat, and pulled out one of the dry tees that had been stuffed inside.
One of the changes of clothing he'd been expecting to use after a weekend spent 'getting back together' with Kitty.
"Not gonna think about that now," he grated, yanking the shirt over his head and putting the jeep into gear.
The route out of the lot was thankfully clear of obstructions, everyone having parked with some degree of courtesy, and Lance quickly found his sights full of nothing but a rain-battered windshield and lonely road, the soft glow of the summer house fading into obscurity within seconds.
"Good fucking riddance," he murmured darkly, taking the unpaved lane slowly in deference to the bad weather, blindly stabbing a finger at the stereo's control panel.
Deafening music immediately erupted, though it wasn't the ear-splitting volume that made Lance flinch. He slapped his hand against the eject button, and the tape currently playing obediently popped free of the deck. He pulled it out completely, staring accusingly at the label he didn't need light to read - the six words written in bubble gum-scented marker had been committed to memory long ago.
"Our Soundtrack", bordered with several small, hot pink hearts, was boldly proclaimed on side 'A', while "All My Love, Kitty" had been neatly penned on side 'B'.
"Lies," Lance whispered, his hand tightening angrily around the cassette. "All lies."
There was a snapping noise as the fragile plastic casing cracked under the pressure of his fingers, and still he continued to squeeze, not caring when sharp edges bit into the flesh of his palm. He needed some way to express his pent-up emotions, and if he couldn't unleash them on the girl they stemmed from, then something she'd given him would have to serve. When there was nothing left of the tape but a tangle of shiny black ribbon and shards of ruined case, Lance unrolled the window halfway, and pitched the remains into the ditch that ran along the side of the road.
"Good fucking riddance," he repeated bitterly, cranking the window shut and turning his attention back to driving.
And he was glad that he did, when something - or someone - was spotted on the road just ahead.
Lance squinted and leaned forward, realizing he was seeing the telltale lines of a person's figure, rather than those of some furred forest denizen he first thought the shadow to be.
"Who in the hell would be out for walk in the middle of nowhere on a night like - " The murmured words trailed off as surprise suddenly gripped him.
The person had pivoted towards his oncoming jeep, most likely to avoid becoming road kill, and was brought into shocking relief when the headlight's brightness spilled over their form.
Still dressed in the elegant, monochromatic outfit he'd first seen her in - though a little worse for wear - was Jean Grey. There was no mistaking that perfectly proportioned body, that familiar face, or, despite the way she'd tied it back, the fiery sheen of her hair.
"Guess I wasn't the only one who couldn't wait to leave party central," Lance snorted in vague amusement, remembering how the telepath had vanished after dealing with Duncan, though at the time he'd merely assumed she'd retreated to sulk in private. Never would he have expected to find her out on the road, braving the elements, apparently preferring a long walk home over the relative comfort afforded by Duncan's cottage - however upset she might be at its owner.
Lance shook his head in wonderment, not sure if the feeling plucking at his insides was grudging admiration for the redhead's tenacity, or incredulity at the irrationality of her actions - especially when he noticed she was barefoot.
"She's nuts," he ultimately decided, angling the jeep's trajectory so that it crossed to the other side of the road, Jean now only a few feet ahead. "But that ain't my problem. Have a good walk, Princess," he saluted as the jeep sailed past her with room to spare - and straight through a veritable trough of muddy water.
The resulting splash was impossible to ignore; it crashed over the jeep's hood, blanketing the windshield under a wave of dirty liquid, and sprayed up audibly against the thick flap of clear plastic that served as the rear window. Lance hurriedly glanced over his shoulder, hoping that his car alone had been the recipient of that accidental bath, only to groan aloud when the receding sight of Jean revealed otherwise.
"Shit," he hissed, facing the road again, determinedly refusing to stop, slow, or even look back, despite the instantaneous prick of hot guilt his less than chivalrous behaviour garnered.
Nice, Alvers, real nice... a flatly disapproving voice sighed in his head.
Lance exhaled angrily at hearing his subconscious-self sound so reproving. "What?" he demanded in irritation, hating it when his conscience tried to interfere.
Oh please, that intangible presence countered sarcastically. You see a girl who might have appreciated some help, and not only do you soak her, you keep on driving...
"So?" Lance snapped, his hands going tight around the steering wheel. "What do I look like - a goddamned Good Samaritan? I'm a member of the Brotherhood, for Christ's sake, not some fucking knight in shining armor." He shook his head, lips curling sardonically. "Kitty was pretty clear about that the day we broke up."
The voice in his head made a noise of discontent, preparing to launch another scolding diatribe, but Lance was through listening. He flicked a switch, changing the stereo's function from tape to radio, and let out a relieved breath when distracting music once again blared from the speakers.
A few minutes of blessed inner peace ticked by, and Lance relaxed enough to tap his fingers along with the charging beat of the random song playing.
But where his brain had lapsed quietly into defeat on the topic of abandoning Jean, the tiny bubble of guilt his leaving her had created only continued to grow. It swelled up from the pit of his stomach with every passing second, filling his midsection with uncomfortable warmth, crawling up his neck in a prickling flush, until his face fairly burned with shame.
It's not too late to go back for her... whispered stealthily through his mind.
"No," Lance grumbled with slightly less conviction than he had before, not sure if the faintly echoing thought belonged to his conscience, or to him.
It's the right thing to do... the whisper continued.
"No," Lance repeated, staunchness being eaten away by uncharacteristic remorse.
You know she'd do the same if your positions were reversed...
His first instinctive reply was an emphatic 'Bullshit!', but in remembering Jean's extended hand, her earlier offer of silent help, the lie died before it could be voiced, leaving him defenseless.
There was a pregnant pause from both parties, and then...
"Son of a bitch," Lance surrendered bitterly, jerking the steering wheel violently to one side before he even realized what he was doing.
The tires protested the abrupt 180 he spun them in, skidding in the soft mud despite their treads, but moved swiftly once again when redirected back the way they'd come, almost as if, they too, approved his spontaneous decision.
Lance uttered imprecations under his breath, calling himself every kind of idiot, and tore up the road he'd just traveled down, firmly attributing his actions to his need for atonement.
"Fair's fair," he groused sullenly, scanning the shadows for a glimpse of the redhead he'd so callously deserted. "I'm only doing this so she and I are square."
The thought that his sudden change of heart might actually stem from anything besides a sense of reluctant duty - like say, the curious way she caused his pulse to leap whenever he happened to catch her staring - never once crossed his mind.