MINI-STORY!

Once upon a time there was a man named Charles Xavier. He was a git. There was also a girl named JuJuBe who hated Charles very much. She killed him.

THE END.

I like that one. Nice plot, I say. Thanks to my reviewers!

Salazar Vampiric Elf Luna Ash: It's really annoying to write out your whole name.

Gremblin: I happen to like bananas! They're yummy!

Nyltiak: What the hell is the matter with bananas? (Spell bananas! B-A-N-A-N-A-S!)

DJ Atomica: Yeah, well Mort wasn't too pleased about the whole crying thing.

Mort: I would never cry in front of the X-Men!

Me: But you DID.

Mort: No I didn't! You're an idiot!

Me: That's it. You're paying for that in this chapter!

Dark Howler: Thanks!

Tame za shousetsu! That's Japakanese!

Chapter 5: This is the fic that never ends...!

Mystique's POV:

Two days later, and Mort was able to stay in a room attatched to mine. We had to keep the door open most of the time, as he was incapable of most forms of movement. I was sitting in a chair in my room, reading about some generic hero who fought the bad guys and got the girl. It really annoyed me.

"Mystique!" called Mort from his bed. He still sounded like he was chewing cotton.

"Yes, Mort?" I answered, putting my book down.

"I gotta take a piss! Hewp me up, now, wouldja?"

I sighed, and walked over to his bed, and peeled the covers off, revealing The Sex Pistols boxers. His skin was still blacker than skin had a right to be, but it was getting better. I sat him up veeeeeeeeeery slowly, with one hand on his chest, and one on his back like Jean had showed me, and he cringed hard. It took some time to get him standing, but we did it without tears for the second time. He leaned on me, and we staggered painstakingly to the bathroom.

This was what it was like for the next three days. He slept most of the time, and when he needed to eat or pee, I'd help him. My heart was breaking and repairing with each hour I spent helping him. I had my boy back, but it pained me to see him so helpless and vulnerable. The way that he was in too much pain to care that I had to bathe him. For someone as modest as him, this was something.

Soon enough, though, his bed rest was paying off. He could walk slowly with the aid of a cane, though it took me a while to battle his pride enough to get him to use it.

"Hey Mort!" I called to him.

"Wha'?"

"In celebration of your being able to eat solids, I thought we could eat in the cafeteria!" It was also in celebration of his being able to wear pants, but I thought I'd leave that out.

"Well I can't walk tha' well, you know..." he protested.

"That's what the cane is for, Mort."

"But... I don' wanna use the cane! Canes are for old men an' cripples!"

"And you, my friend, are a cripple. Now get some pants on, and use the fucking cane." I won, and he knew it.

We stepped out into the hotel-ish hallway. He didn't look so bad. Sure, his face was a bit ashen-colored, and his hair was a lighter shade of green, and his chest was a mass of black scars, but overall, he looked well for a guy who'd just been in an accident like he had. Accident my ass. Shoot! I forgot his meds! "Hold on a second, Mort, I'm gonna run back to the rooms and get your lunch pills." He nodded, and I dashed back down the hall.

Mort's POV:

Mystique sprinted to the room and I looked down at my can with disgust. Stupid stick. Makes me look like a weakling! I leaned against a nearby door in frustration.

Behind the door I heard a voice that I recognized as the Professor's. It was not, however, the calm, knowledgeable tone that it usually gave off. No, as my eyes snapped open in horror, I distinctly heard moaning, grunting, and the calls of "Oh, Scott! Scott! Go faster now, Scott!". I let out a yelp of horror, spun around, lost my balance, and ended up on the floor, about to projectile vomit.

Mystique came back down the hall, and found me laying there, wide eyed. "Mort? What happened? Did you fall?" She rushed to help me up, and steady me back on my cane. At a loss for words, I merely pointed at the door. "The Professor's room?" I nodded. She reached over and knocked. "Professor?"

"Umm... Don't come in! I'm, ah, doing some neural projects, and, erm, can't be distracted!"

I shook my head, and began limping down the hall, mentally screaming to stop the disturbing noises from replaying in my head. I was thankful for the elevator downstairs, but once we entered the cafeteria, all of my gratefulness shriveled up, and died.

There she was. Storm.

Suspeeeeeeeense! Sorry for anything odd I might have said. I'm on Benadryl right now and it makes me a little funny in the head. WHY DO THE HIVES ITCH SO? WHY?