Damaged Goods: Chapter One

Disclaimer: Sadly, none of the X-Men belong to me. At least, not in this lifetime.

Universe: I don't really know a lot about any one in particular, so it's sort of a mutt. Pretty self-explanitory, though. A couple of things are different from what I've come to think of as the norm. But believe me, it's all for a reason. If you have any questions feel free to ask.

Notes: As always, reviews are greatly appreciated, regardless of what you think. Everyone is entitled to their own opinion, even if it happens to be wrong. laughs maniacally Also, input on any of the characters is always welcome. Any advice anyone can give me will be well received.

Additional Notes: If anyone can let me in on the story behind Rogue and Joseph, that would be super. I'd like to include their relationship in this creation, but I don't know much about them. Only what I've managed to piece together from all your works. :)

Now on to the story....

"Something has been taken from deep inside of me
The secret I've kept locked away no one can ever see
Wounds so deep they never show, they never go away
Like moving pictures in my head for years and years they've played..."

-Easier To Run, Linkin Park

He sat alone in his bedroom, a bottle of bourbon in one hand, and a switchblade in the other. The space echoed with the sound of his breathing. Solitude wasn't foreign to him; despite living in a house with at very least, fifty other people, he rarely talked to anyone. Point of fact: it had been roughly two days since he had seen the face of another human being. His bedroom was dark, like it always was. He preferred it over brightness; his red on black eyes were extremely light sensitive, and besides, darkness hid things from view. Things he didn't want to see, or acknowledge. Darkness made things easier. And Lord knows the last thing he needed was more complications.
The room was in horrible disarray; it looked as if a group of fratboys had come partying through, breaking some things and leaving behind others. The hardwood floors were littered with empty bottles of varying types of alcohol, many articles of dirty clothing in different stages of wear, and broken glass, from bottle and picture frame alike. The bed hadn't been made in days, and the sheets were in terrible need of a wash, but it was unlikey they would get the attention they needed. The down comforter, once beautifully designed with a pattern of interlocking squares of black and deep burgundy was now washed out, devoid of beauty, and stinking like alcohol, much like the man himself. The walls had been painted a complimentary shade of navy blue, but like all other things in the room, was in desperate need of a good days worth of repair. One of his more violent moods had seen pictures ripped off the walls and smashed, taking chunks of drywall with them. A six drawered mahogony dresser placed flush against the wall opposite the bed had been emptied of its contents long ago, but the drawers remained open, as if mourning the loss. A door to the right of the dresser gave way to a small closet, it too beihg void of anything more substantial than a dust bunny. A door on the left side of the dresser led to the attached ensuite, complete with jacquzzi bathtub, and standing stall shower with massaging head. Dirty towels in many degrees of dampness adorned the tiled floor, and the mirror hung above the marble countertop was cracked in a circular impression, as though something hefty had been pelted into its centre.

The sole occupant of this disgraceful dwelling sat perched on the edge of a dark brown, leather wingback chair placed in the corner of the room nearest the bed, contemplating his reflection in the blade of the knife. The handle was warm in his grasp; indeed, he had been sitting in a similar fashion for quite sometime, eyes riveted by that which he saw in the cool metal. It would be so easy. Too easy in fact, to draw the knife across his wrist and end it all. He lifted the knife; it felt weightless, where before it had been dragging his hand down. He placed the sharpened blade against the inside of his left wrist, and pressed. Yes, death would be easy this way. He had always possessed a high tolerance for pain, so it was unlikely to become too much. But death was not his intention. Death would end his troubles, end his pain, and for a man of his sins that was unacceptable. He intended only to hurt; to watch the knife cut through skin, watch the blood rush to the site and spill out down his arm. He wanted to feel the intense sting as his life dripped out the slash in his body. He wanted punishment.

"Remy! Remy, my friend!"

A sudden voice rang out in the still silence of his room, and it was soon accompanied by a sharp knocking against the door. His undamaged wrist flicked sharply, and the blade disappeared into the handle. Another flick, and the knife slid under the bed with a soft clattering. He pulled his shirt sleeve down over his bloody wrist just as his guest opened the door and stepped inside without waiting for bidden entrance.

Dr. Henry McCoy was a man of contradictions. He was immense in stature, standing well over six feet when slouching, and nearly as wide with muscle. Great beefy arms, barrell chest, and tree trunk legs. His ears more resembled a dog's than a humans, and even with mouth closed his canines protruded from his lips. His body was covered head to toe with incredibley soft blue fur and instead of finger and toe nails inch long claws grew from the ends of his digits. By all appearances, he well deserved the nickname "Beast." To converse with the man, however, is to understand the true meaning behind the saying "do not judge a book by it's cover." Hank, as he preferred to be called, is extremely intelligant, and more eloquent than most best selling authors. He retained a rare kindness, a gentleness, that is rarely seen in this too harsh world we live in.

Hank's delicate sense of smell was offended by the overwhelming stench of burboun, and other non-recognizable odours. His eyesight wasn't at par with his scenting capablities, and he had to squint in the darkness. "Remy, are you in here?"he asked, reaching out with one hand to blindly search for the light switch. "I thought we discussed how sitting in the dark in not condusive to good eyesight."

His fingers found their intended target, and soft golden light filled the room in all it's embarrassing glory. Hank made a soft sound of self-satisfaction, as Remy shrank back from the light, shielding his eyes with both hands.

"Merde, Monsieur Bete!"he shouted, blinking furiously against the immediate and reactionary tears. "I tol' you! Mes yeuz don't work like everyone elses."

Hank was unimpressed with Remy's anger. He wrinkled his nose, and clicked his tongue in disapproval as he gazed around the upheaved room. "Well, how am I to know that when you've never let me examine you? But I'll save that argument for another day. I believe we had appointment today."

Remy smacked his forehead with the heel of his right hand in a fake show of frustration. "Je suis tres desole! I forgot!"

Hank frowned, and stepped further into the room, undeterred by its appearance. Although Remy was a terrific liar, he also had a terrific memory, and Hank refused to believe that he had simply forgotten the appointment. No, more likely, he had remembered, and blown it off in favour of sitting in the dark with a bottle of bourbon, doing God only knows what. For his part, Remy had the good sense to look sheepish, but Hank wasn't buying. He brushed off a small corner of the bed, and settling down on it, bending forward at the waist and clasping his hands together.

"You may be a terrific poker player, and by association, liar, but I don't believe you for one minute. You blew off this appointment just like you tried to blow off all the other appointments. Did you think I would forget? Or maybe I would assume you had better things to do? You know that one of the conditions of your return was that you see me regularly. Professor Xavier is right to have instituted those conditions, and believe that you need my help. You are sick, friend, and the only way to remedy that is with medical attention."

Remy didn't reply, and did naught but stare into the palms of his open hands, as if trying to read his own future. For all outward appearances, he had not even heard Hank's response. Hank frowned, and reached out, clasping one of Remy's hands in each of his own. Remy was not small, and neither were his hands, but enclosed in Hank's they looked almost childlike in comparison. Hank tugged gently, and reluctantly, Remy looked up and held his gaze, if somewhat pitifully.

"From your lack of evident response, I can only assume you want to disappoint the Professor. You blow of these appointments because you want him to retract your welcome mat, so to speak. You want him to ask you to leave, so you can be on your own again, depending on no one but yourself."

"What do you wan' me to say?" Remy ripped his hands from Hanks', and stood with a fraction of the speed he was capable of. He crossed the room in two big strides, and grabbed the last unopened bottle of Jack Daniels off his dresser. "Dat I don' wan' to make de Professeur mad at me? Dat I'll do anyt'ing to stay? You t'ink I wan' to stay in a place where everyone hates me? I can feel deir hatred, Bete. Deir disgust. It pours off dem when dey sleep, suffocates me in m' bed. You say mebbe I want de Professeur to kick me out? Huh. Mebbe you right."

Hank watched him with a calculating eye as he knocked his head back and took a long swallow of the amber liquid. He stood slowly from the edge of the bed, and in one fluid flash of blue fur, he was nearly ontop of Remy, gripping his empty hand fiercely. Remy's eyes widened with surprise, but he was otherwise motionless. When Remy was in peak physical and mental condition, there were few people in the world who could surprise him like Hank just had. But when he was entering the second week of the best and worst bender of his life, his capacities were equal with that of a ninety year old woman suffering from osteoperosis.

Hank's beady black eyes narrowed coldly, and for a moment, Remy's heart stopped in his chest. Then if at all possible, the doctor's hand, the same hand that could do some of the most delicate work Remy had ever seen, tightened even more. The Cajun thief could almost hear the bones grinding together, but still he did not move. At this point, even the slightest grimace could be seen as giving in to the pain, and that was the last thing Remy was about.

Hank pulled on Remy's wrist, but this time there was nothing gentle or concerned about the gesture. He lifted the appendage, held it at eye level, then with the other hand ripped back Remy's sleeve. Shock showed clearly on his features as he took in the neat red line of damaged flesh. He had had his suspicions when the coppery smell of blood had first wound it's way into his naval cavity, but obviously he hadn't been expecting to be proved right. He raised his gaze to Remy's practised poker face, and let go of the wrist.

"I cut myself shaving,"the younger man replied. He sounded wooden, almost dummy like, as though he had spent hours saying the line over and over again until he felt he could spit it out without any emotion at all. Hank fell back a step. He'd always known that Remy was not doing well since returning from his near death experience in Antarctica, but he hadn't even considered that his problems might've escalated to self-mutilation.

Remy pulled the sleeve back down over his wrist and turned his back on Hank. "You should go,"he said quietly, before taking another swallow of Tennessee whiskey. He should've known there wasn't a snowball chance in hell that Hank would listen, but rational thought wasn't really his thing anymore. But when Hank moved towards him again, took hold on his uninjured wrist, and quietly explained that they would take a trip down to the medlab to fix this, he didn't even tell Hank to take his concern and shove it where the sun don't shine. Because deep down he knew, Hank couldn't watch him twenty four hours a day. And the switchblade was still sitting underneath the bed, waiting patiently for his return.

In a different part of the mansion, on the ground floor and opposite wing, the twelve hundred square foot garage stank of motor oil, vanilla cupcakes and testosterone. The garage appeared less than a garage, and more like a showroom for the year's most expensive and flashiest vehicles. They ranged from a 2004 Hummer H2, to a 2003 Mazda Miada. As well as the newest releases in the car industry, the garage housed some of the classics. 1972 Dodge Charger, 1951 Chevrolet Bel Air, and 1964 Chevy Impala Convertible. The '69 Ford Mustang Mach 1 Pro Street was a work in progress that had seen better days; more of it's parts lay in various places around the garage rather than under it's hood. Such a monumentous task might seem frustrating and pointless to some, but to the man currently bent over the engine, hunched underneath the hood, it was relaxing, almost meditative. Or, it would be, if not for the seventeen year old boy bouncing on the balls of his feet next to him, with a cupcake held lightly in each fist.

"Ororo said the cupcakes were for Parent Night only, but I figured since I won't be there anyway, I might as well have one now."

Scott Summers set down the pneumatic rachet, and regarded Bobby Drake with a dry look. "You don't know they're not coming. They could surprise you this year."

Bobby was the only student that attended Professor Xavier's School For the Gifted that could get away with calling the teachers by their first names. He'd been living in the dormitory and taking classes at the school since his mutant power manifested at the tender age of twelve. Despite urging from many of the members of faculty, Bobby was reluctant to make friends with students his own age, and instead could usually be found shadowing one of his teachers during their time off. He was small for his age, short and thin as a rail. His baby blue eyes were disarmingly innocent, and one was instantly struck by how naive he seemed. But the adults had a tendency to forget his age, whether it was because he could always underfoot, or because he spoke to them like he was a peer instead of a student.

Bobby liked hanging out with Scott. He liked how the older man didn't talk down to him, didn't dumb down his language for Bobby's sake. When he spent time around Scott, he could usually forget that he didn't have any other friends in the school, and that his parents never called him. He could forget that for the fifth year in a row, he would have no one to show around the school on Parent Night. He liked hanging out with his English and Auto Shop teacher, but Scott had made it an annoying habit of giving Bobby's parents the benefit of the doubt.

He scoffed as Scott returned to removing the car's oil pan. "I bet you an A on my next English essay they don't show up."

Scott sighed, and again put down the rachet. "Bobby, I can't give you a good grade on a bet. That's immoral. Besides, every year you decide a week before the actual night that they aren't gonna show up. I believe that's called 'shielding yourself from disappointment.'"

"No, it's called 'having a realistic view of the world.' Come on, I know you want a piece of this bet. A says my mom calls the night of, and says my dad threw his back out again. Okay, make it a B. Ya know, Logan always said you were a pansy gambler, but I never believed him. After this though..."

He balanced the cupcakes on the wheel well of the Mustang, and crossed his arms in front of his chest. Scott Summers was not an easy man to read, what with his eyes being hidden behind a specifically designed optical visor lensed with ruby quartz. In addition to this, Scott had one hell of a poker face. Not as good as Gambit's, but still definitely above par. But Bobby had spent a lot of time with him, and was just inately good at reading people. So he knew even before Scott opened his mouth that he had lost the battle.

"I'm not gonna bet you, Bobby. Professor Xavier would have my head. All I'm gonna say on the subject is they're your parents, and you should have a little faith in them. Now will you hand me a three eights socket, please?"

Bobby frowned fiercely, but picked up his cupcakes nonetheless, and carried them over to the wooden workbench built against the East wall. Scott was not the only wannabe mechanic in the mansion, and because of this tools were frequently lost or misplaced. It took Bobby several minutes to pinpoint the three eights socket.

He delivered the socket to Scott, received a grumbled thanks in return, and the garage fell silent once more. With very little to occupy his attention, Bobby soon wandered over the old rusted out Dodge Pick-up Logan had been seen puttering around lately. He lifted the hood and stood back, scratching his chin lightly as he scrutinized the truck's engine. Scott watched with a smile; the kid may have the right attitude, but when it came to knowledge about cars and how they work, Bobby knew only slightly more than Jean. And that wasn't saying much.

"Hey, what are you up to tonight, Bobby?"Scott called out. Thankfully, the teen immediately lost interest in the truck and rushed over the Scott's side.

"Why, you have something in mind? Ya know, I've been meaning to check out that new Chucky movie. And since I don't have my license yet, I thought we could check it out together. But I know that you don't really like horror, but I still think it'll be fun any-"

He stopped abruptly mid-sentence, when he noticed the look on Scott's face. As mentioned previously, he was great at reading people, and the guilty blush that rose to Scott's cheeks was impossible to misinterpret.

"Actually, I have a date with Jean tonight. But I heard Jubilee saying earlier that her and a bunch of the other kids were gonna watch all the Halloween movies. That'd be fun, huh?"

Bobby's face fell faster than a barrell over Niagara Falls. He didn't want to spend time with the other kids just as much as they didn't want to spend time with him. None of the adults seemed to realize that the feeling that Bobby didn't belong went both ways. He wasn't anti-social, like he'd heard some of them discussing once before. He just knew when he wasn't wanted. But he didn't want Scott to know any of this. He knew they worried about him enough because of his parents. They didn't need to fret over him having no friends too.

He barely managed to hide his disappointment behind a smile. "Yeah, I'm sure it would be. I love those movies. Maybe I'll check it out."

Scott returned the smile, not once suspecting its veracity. He bent over the engine once more, and resumed work on the stubborn oil pan. When he heard nothing more from Bobby, he straigntened from his task, and was surprised to see him gone. Rarely did Bobby leave a room without making what he referred to as "an exit worthy of Shakespeare." But Scott noticed one thing with a smile; he had left something behind. One of two vanilla sprinkle cupcakes had been placed carefully on the workbench, next to the framed picture of Jean Scott kept there.