Chapter Two
When he woke again, his head was less fuzzy, though it still felt as though he'd been mauled by Juggernaut, which was a pain he was unfortunately familiar with. Hank had teased him mercilessly after it had happened saying that not many people knew what it was like to be mauled with the force of a locomotive. Bobby had just laughed and had called him an old timer for using the word locomotive. There was a twinge of sadness as Bobby wished Hank was here now to poke fun at him. He could only imagine the things Hank could come up with this time around. He tried to imagine what his blue furred friend would say, but another thought entered his mind. Where was Emma?
Sitting up a bit too fast, Bobby put a hand to his head and waited for the room to stop spinning before he pushed himself to his feet. His ankle protested the movement, but Bobby cursed it and told it to shut up. He looked towards the top bunk, half expecting Emma to be laying there, posing like a model, and snapping something witty and dangerous towards him. But the bed was empty, the gray wool blanket tucked into the farthest corner. He sighed and looked around. A part of him was glad for the reprieve of Emma's dominating presence, but another part of him wished she was still there, if only so he wouldn't be alone in this strange, dangerous place.
Bobby sat back down on the bed and sighed, running a hand over his bruised face and through his hair. He was less disoriented now than he had been when he had first woken up. Before, he hadn't wanted to think about anything, but now his mind was in overdrive, waking up from it's abuse, and ready for action. He needed to find a way out of this. He needed to find out what had happened to Logan and Piotr and he needed to find Emma. Deep down in his gut, the last thing became priority. He needed to find out where they took Emma. He felt the reminiscence of her hand lightly brushing his head until he fell asleep. It was very uncharacteristic of the image he had built of Emma in his mind, but he wasn't surprised that she had comforted him. Emma was egotistical, snobbish, prude, and could even be considered cruel at sometimes. But she wasn't heartless. Though that side of Emma rarely showed.
The door down the hall opened and Bobby looked towards who had entered. Forearm and another girl were walking down the hall, towards the cell where Bobby was being kept. The girl had short cut red hair and an angular face. She reminded Bobby of a younger Jean, when he had first met her. That lanky, not really fitting into her body, type of adolescence. She couldn't have been older than 18. She had a smirk on her face which reminded him of Jubilee and he sighed. He could tell this would be interesting to say the least.
"Hey, Ice Freak," Forearm mocked, stringing two of his arms through the bars to lean lazily against them. Bobby chewed on his tongue and leaned back on the bed, trying to feign disinterest. "You bored without that pretty little plaything we gave you last night?" Forearm's wicked drawl made Bobby clench a fist. "She was a real treat, wasn't she? They don't get much better looking than that."
"I didn't notice," Bobby said nonchalantly, pretending to pick at a scab on his hand. He wondered when he had gotten that. There seemed to be a lot of hurts he didn't remember getting lately.
"Yeah, right," Forearm said with a sadistic chuckle. "Well then, maybe I'll keep her all to myself."
Bobby snorted. Yeah, Emma would really go for that. "Good luck," he said sarcastically, grinning when he saw the look of anger flash across Forearm's face. Perhaps that wasn't the response he was going for. Was he trying to anger Bobby? Anger Bobby with threats towards Emma? Sure, he would be worried, but Emma was strong. Stronger than most people he knew. She had her head on right, maybe a little too right. She never let things get to her. That's what always fascinated Bobby about her. And it was always infuriated him.
"Yeah…well…" Forearm seemed to be struggling to find the right words.
"Shut up," the girl next to him snapped. "Open this door," she said, looking straight into Bobby's eyes. Bobby didn't like what he saw there. He saw spunk, danger, sass, and a hyper teenager who was given power without the proper instructions on how to use it. He recognized the look from a lot of the newcomers to Xavier's Institute. Heck, it was a look he had once held in his eyes. A part of him missed that look, that feeling. But a part of him was also tired, so extremely tired.
"Don't tell me what to do, Skids," Forearm hissed, but unlocked the cell doors anyway. Skids, her name was, ignored him and stepped into the cell to stand right in front of Bobby. He thought about lunging at her, tackling her, bringing her to the ground. But Forearm was standing right behind her, his massive arms ready to take on anything. Bobby didn't like those arms. He still had the bruises around his neck to remind him.
Skids stood with her hands on her hips, the shirt she wore showed off her flat, tone stomach. She stared down Bobby for a moment, neither one of them saying anything. "How's it feel to know that you're the reason all of your little friends are going to die?" She asked, her voice steady, her eyes playful. Bobby didn't know how people could be so sadistic sometimes. He'd only just met the girl and already he didn't like her.
Shrugging in answer he leaned forward. "The same way it feels to know that if this inhibitor weren't around my neck, I could freeze your body, snap off your fingers, slow down your heart and watch you melt all in the blink of an eye." Bobby said coldly, knowing that he could probably do those things, but he would never admit that he didn't have it in him to be that cruel, no matter how much he hated someone. But he'd never let this little spitfire know that.
Skids glowered and twitched her head towards Forearm, who came around her quickly and grabbed Bobby before he had a chance to protest. A hand was wrapped around his neck once more. Bobby brought up his arms, but two hands grabbed his wrists. A fist found it's way to his face, cracking his head sideways on impact, sending sharp pains through his neck and jaw. He grunted, but decided that was the only sound they'd get out of him this time around. Two more punches and suddenly Bobby found himself flying across the room. He barely registered it before he was slamming harshly into the wall with a crunch that rattled him inside and out. He fell to the floor, smacking his forehead and seeing stars. He wondered how many times a person could be hit in the head before there was permanent damage. Wouldn't that be something. The first brain damaged X-Men…besides Scott of course. But did that really even count?
A foot connected with Bobby's ribs, sending him into a spiral of pain that forced him to curl in upon himself. Hands were grabbing at him, yanking him to his feet, pinning him against the wall. A strong hand held his jaw and forced him to look forward. He didn't like being manhandled like this, but there was hardly anything else he could do at the moment. If only he could use his powers…
"Enough," Skids spat and the onslaught stopped, leaving Bobby curled on the floor, trying to keep the pain from making him cry out. He watched as Skids' feet came over to him and she squatted next to him, running a hand through his hair. He flinched away at her touch and scowled the best he could with the new bruises and cuts on his face. "We don't want to kill him," she said, still brushing her fingers through Bobby's hair. "Not yet. Stryfe still needs him."
Stryfe? Bobby's mind instantly kicked on again. It suddenly made sense to him. Emma had mentioned something about terrorists last night, something that he had really caught onto in his cloud of abuse and injury. But now, he could think clearly, or partially clearly, and it made sense. Stryfe was leading some new group around, the Mutant Liberation Front. He'd heard about it, seen the damage that they'd done, but the X-Men, thus far, hadn't had contact with them. But if Stryfe was behind this, that meant they were up against a very formidable foe. Stryfe they'd fought before, but Stryfe with his own terrorist group? That couldn't be a good thing.
"You work for that idiot?" Bobby managed to mumble out. It earned him another kick to the gut that jarred his teeth into each other. Bobby focused on staying conscious. The last thing he wanted now was to fall asleep again. He was actually making progress, learning what was going on. He was a step closer to freedom.
Skids grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled so that he was looking up at her. "Yes, and you will too, eventually." She grinned wickedly and Bobby could only frown. There was no way he would work for Stryfe, that was for certain. "He can be very, convincing."
"I don't see why he'd want a wimp like him, anyway," Forearm grumbled from where he stood. "We couldn't have gotten that Wolverine what's-his-face or that hot red head. We had to get the crummy ice guy who doesn't even know how to use his own powers."
"Shut up," Skids hissed as if Forearm had said too much. Bobby was a bit lost as to what was going on, but he tried to focus on what they were saying. So Stryfe's plan was to get him to join the MLF? Yeah right, that'd be the day. Sure, there were certain things about the X-Men that pissed him off, but he would never join a terrorist group. Not even if it was to save his own life. So Bobby narrowed his options down to two. Die in here, or escape. Rescue wasn't an option at the moment. He couldn't depend on anyone to come in here and get him, though he half expected Hank or Warren to burst in here any minute and take him home and fix him up. Yeah, that'd be nice. Just like the old days.
Distantly, Bobby heard a door open and close. He heard the shuffling of feet, a feminine grunt of pain and the squeaking of a bed as someone fell onto it. Distantly he wondered why, if Stryfe wanted him, Emma was here. Would they kill her? Would they do terrible things to her? Distantly, he wondered why the thought brought such a panic to his mind. He closed his eyes, trying to calm himself. His body hurt anew, his head ached like it had when he had woken up that first day. He could still feel Skids' hand on his head and Forearm's feet hovering nearby, teasing him with the prospect of a kick to the ribs, to the back, to the face. Bobby cringed at the thought of getting kicked in the face. He'd like to keep at least some of his facial features in tact. Though as soon as the inhibitor was off his neck, he could ice up and fix whatever damage they'd do, but he wasn't looking forward to it. It wasn't an easy process as everyone seemed to think it was. It hurt. And it hurt a lot.
"So," Skids seemed to be talking to someone else, her voice traveling away from him. Bobby was grateful for that. He didn't want to talk to her. He didn't want to talk to anyone. He wanted Warren to come into his room, shake him awake, and tell him to stop sleeping in and that it was time for a party. He wanted Scott to slam a hand down on his desk, catching him sleeping again while he was in between classes. He wanted to wake up and find his students chuckling at him for having fallen asleep once again in the middle of a sentence. He wanted all these things, but he knew in the deepest part of his heart that it wasn't going to happen, not his time. Not when the pain was so real and so heavy.
And all of a sudden, Bobby realized someone was inside his head, bringing these thoughts to him. He closed his eyes and thought back to what Professor Xavier had said about mental blocks. He concentrated, concentrated, concentrated to get the other mind out of his. It was a painful mind that was invading his consciousness. One that was probing, deeply, but from a distance. It wasn't anyone in this room, but rather someone who was a bit further away, skimming the outer layer of what made up Bobby Drake and starting to bring inner demons and concerns to the surface. Bobby wouldn't let them win. He'd been up against psychics before and he wouldn't let this one win. Not now. At least not now.
With a mental block firmly in place, he turned his attention to the conversation that had been traversing in his absence. Skids had left his side, but Forearm had taken her place, a hand firmly pressed into the small of his back and another gripping his hair, shoving the side of his face into the ground. He didn't like it, but he didn't have the strength to fight back.
"You really seem to have thrown Moonstar for a loop," Skids was saying. "There's not many who can put up a block strong enough to stop Moonstar." There was praise in Skids voice and Bobby wanted to wipe that smirk he could mentally see off of her face.
"She's not as strong as she thinks," came Emma's smooth, confident voice. It was like a lullaby in Bobby's ears. One that he'd heard a thousand times, had gotten used to, had been torn away from, and now had been reunited with. He was happy, no, exuberant to hear her voice. He fought back the thoughts of abandonment and concentrated on the now. Emma was here, she was okay, that meant there was still hope. He wasn't alone. He wanted to laugh at the new dependency he felt towards the woman. But subconsciously he knew that a good part of these thoughts weren't his own. Someone was amplifying his despair. He wished they would get out of his head.
"Or maybe she was holding back," Skids said and he heard her walking towards the door. "Let's go, Forearm. Leave these two to plot revenge while they still can. Tomorrow, that Ice Freak is going to be working for us."
The hand on his lower back lifted and Bobby felt like a new man. He felt, cleaner, for lack of a better word. But there was still the matter of the hand that had entwined in his hair. He waited for the hand to let go, for Forearm to walk away and leave him to lay there in ache and angst and torment. He was ready to accept it. Ready for the pain to leave and for the ache to settle in. He was ready, mentally and physically. But Forearm didn't grant him that readiness. He lifted Bobby's head back so his neck was craned. Bobby let out a small sound of discomfort before Forearm shoved his head back to the ground. His forehead smacked fiercely and white light danced in front of his eyes. Spots glittered in front of him and the white light twisted and contorted to form pain and blood and bruises. Bobby felt like his eyes had burst in their sockets, like his head had split open, like his nose had shattered, fallen off and had been thrown back at him only to hit him in the head again. He felt like his lips had been ripped off, split, cracked, cut, pierced through with his teeth. His face was nothing but pain. No features, no feeling, just pain.
He wasn't aware that Forearm had let go and had disappeared down the hallway. He hadn't heard Skids smack him across the face for the brutality. He hadn't heard Emma mutter some profanity under her breath as Forearm passed her. He hadn't heard her continue to mutter as she made her way from the bed to the floor. And he hadn't noticed that she had started stroking his head and whispering to him. He only became aware of the latter when the white hot pain had faded into an ache so deep he thought his insides were clenching shut. His head was fuzzy, foggy, muffled, misted, everything and nothing. His brain was scrambled from the impact of his head against the floor, of the punches he'd received, of the everlasting effects of the concussion he knew had just been doubled, tripled, quadrupled.
But as Emma sat beside him, stroking his head and whispering words he couldn't understand, he felt calm. The ache dulled beyond his consciousness and all he could hear was the soft whispers coming from Emma's mouth. God, that mouth. Some days he marveled in the words that come from between those lips and others he wanted to staple those two flaps of skin together and hear nothing more from her. Right now, it was all Bobby knew. Those red lips against those snowy teeth. Wisps of air escaping between them, forming syllables, sounds that he couldn't understand. But they were calming, they soothed him, and he listened as if he could hear.
Bobby didn't know how long they stayed like that. He must have fallen asleep sometime through it all. He woke once, though only partially, to the sounds of voices. One he didn't recognize but thought he should, and one that he had come to know and love and cling to. She had been mad, angered, but pleading. He'd never heard her voice like that before. There was the sound of a door closing and Bobby was asleep again.
When he woke again, he was laying on his back and there was a cold cloth brushing his face. He felt the cold cement floor beneath his legs, but his shoulders and head were propped on something soft, someone soft. When he tried to open his eyes, he found that he couldn't. They weighed the weight of the world and try as he might, he couldn't lift them. He remembered what had happened and once he realized that it was Emma who, once again, was taking care of him, telling him everything was all right, he let out a low groan.
"Robert?" The voice pierced through the fuzz that he hadn't known was covering his ears. Slowly, his hearing came back. He heard some whir of a machine in the distance, something that hadn't been there before, but he didn't know or care what it was. He heard Emma's breathing, calm, but hitched. "Robert?" Her voice came again and he wanted desperately to answer her. "Are you with me?" She asked, her voice quiet, as though she wasn't sure if he was really there.
Bobby let out a groan in response and tried again to open his eyes. With all the strength that he could possibly possess, he managed to pry them open. It was dark and he wasn't sure if the lights were out or if this was now something new he had to deal with. He hoped the lights were merely off. He tried to focus his eyes, hoping that any second now his vision would return. It took a bit, just long enough for Bobby to begin to accept the fate of the blind, but slowly small bits of white, pale yellow, and blue started to filter into Bobby's vision. It was blurry and he wasn't sure what he was looking at at first. But then, he finally realized that he was staring up into the face of Emma Frost. Her blonde hair fell down around them. Her eyes were scanning his face for life, for a sign that he wasn't totally gone, wasn't now just a shell of a man.
"Robert?" Her lips moved with grace that reminded Bobby of a ballet he had once seen as a kid. His father had taken him, told him to sit still and watch. Bobby had pouted and cried silently to himself at first. But then he'd gotten interested, watched them leap and bend and fold and move and dance and then he'd become fascinated and watched them act, sing, tell, say, show, create, simply dance. It was beautiful and mesmerizing and Emma Frost's lips were the same.
A small distressed sound escaped from those two lips and he saw that her brow was furrowed, worried. She moved those lips again and said his name for a final time, quieter, softer than she had said the last times she had been trying to call him back from oblivion. Bobby realized she was scared, for him. The thought made him feel warm when he didn't know he was cold. He tried to move, to reach up and let her know that he hadn't left, that he was still there. But his body was betraying him.
So he settled on trying to whisper her name. It came out garbled, too soft, and not even resembling her name in any sort and he took in a breath, forcing his body to work. He tried again and this time, he managed to get the point across. "Emma?" When her name escaped his mouth, she smiled, a brilliant, beautiful smile that Bobby had rarely seen on her. But she toned it down after a moment, reverting back to her old, arrogant self. Bobby found comfort in that. He needed something solid to hold onto and a new Emma would be too much for him.
"It's about time you decided to wake up," she said, moving the cold cloth from his forehead and looking down into his eyes. "I was beginning to think you wouldn't."
"Worried?" Bobby whispered weakly.
"Only because I didn't want to have to drag your brain dead body out of here when I make my escape," Emma said, her voice teasing. Bobby closed his eyes. The image of Emma carrying him out of here made him want to laugh and cry at the same time. She had been worried. He felt guilty.
He started to lift himself off the ground, the whole room spinning as he did so. "Not…gone…yet," he said between grunts. Emma's hands were placed firmly on his shoulders, guiding him back down into a lying position, his head in her lap. He didn't have the strength to fight back.
"Easy," she said in a soft whisper as he settled back into his comfortable position. "As invincible as you think you are, you're hurt, Robert." She brushed a hand across his forehead and he felt the awkwardness of his own skin. He reached a shaky hand up and felt his face. There was swelling in places he didn't know could swell. There was a cut, deep, but freshly stitched, in the middle of his forehead. "Fourteen," Emma said.
Bobby frowned. "What?"
"Fourteen," she repeated. "It took fourteen stitches to patch up that head of yours."
"Hurts," Bobby mumbled as he ran his fingers along the stitches he now felt there. Emma gently took his wrist and guided his hand back down to his side. As she brought her hand back to his head, she ran her fingers along his body, slowly, gently, lovingly. He was used to advances made by Emma, but somehow, this one was different. Somehow he knew that she meant this one. He was once again struck by how odd it was that Emma had actually been worried, about him. He never would have believed it.
"Get some rest," she said. "Now that I know you aren't any more brain damaged than you already were," he snorted at the joke, "you should get some rest. From what information I have managed to gather from those twits, you are going to have quite a time ahead of you, dear."
Bobby frowned again. He didn't like the sound of that, but he was too tired to think about what that meant. He knew they were going to try to persuade him to join them and he didn't think that would go too gently. He didn't suppose he could just say he didn't want to and they'd accept his decision like responsible adults. But he didn't want to dwell on that now. He'd deal with it when the time came. Those "twits" like Emma called them didn't exactly scare him. He knew that Forearm was strong and could hurt him pretty bad, but if Stryfe wanted him for something, then Forearm couldn't do anything to him. That thought alone made Bobby smile on the inside.
But there was something that Bobby wanted to know and he didn't know how to ask it. So he settled with a simple, "What are you doing here?"
Emma sighed, her hand stopped stroking his hair. "We have already gone over this, Robert," she said calmly, though there was a tone in her voice that Bobby couldn't quite place. "Have you forgotten?"
"No," Bobby whispered, his eyes still closed. "I mean…if they want me to join them, what are you doing here?"
Emma was quiet for a moment, the question lingering in the air. He could feel her tense beneath his head. He opened his eyes and found that she was looking at him, taking in his battered face, his possibly broken ribs, and his bruised hope. She gave a weak smile, though it didn't reach her eyes, like most Emma smiles. "I won't betray you, Robert," she whispered quietly. Bobby frowned, trying to concentrate on her face. He didn't understand.
"Emma?" he asked, willing her to go on.
"Get some rest," she said, her eyes empty now. Bobby was scared to see her like that. Something was going on, something that he didn't quite grasp. He hoped that things would start to make sense when he woke up again. But for right now, with his head in Emma's lap and her hand back to stroking his hair, Bobby closed his eyes and felt an uneasy sleep creep over him. And as he did, a strange thought occurred to him. He hoped Emma would be there when he woke up.