Requiem

Setting: Three years after PD Season 2. A few years back in the 'corrected' post-DOFP universe.

Summary: Ned discovered his mutation when he was nine. He was lucky enough to find a partner that thought his power was a gift, not an abomination - even more so when his powers brought back his childhood sweetheart. But nothing lasts forever. There's nothing left for him in Papen County. This is the end. Or is it?

Warnings: Angst like whoa. Character death. Suicide and overall dark themes at the beginning. Contains nuts.

nocturne

inspired by, or evocative of, the night

The edge of the gauze slipped from his fingers for the fourth time.

The splint on his left hand reduced his grasping ability to a weak pinch, complicating the simplest of motions. A wave of frustration rolled over Ned. God, he was pathetic. He couldn't even take his own bandages off without running for help. His lip curled and he clenched his good hand into a fist, sitting back on the double bed.

He couldn't do this one simple thing howwouldheevermoveonwithhislife-

Shaking his head to break from the gravitational pull of his misery, he blinked the burning from his eyes and bit down fiercely on the loose end of the bandage. He yanked and twisted his right arm around and around, tugging at stray arm hairs and clumps of dried blood. Though his stitches had been removed days before, the edges of his lacerations were an angry scarlet, crusted with black.

Triumph surged through him and propelled him to his feet. Ned balled up the used bandages and tossed them into the garbage, looking out across the room. Xavier hadn't been kidding when he said the Institute was prepared for runaways. This room seemed less equipped for students and more for guests or itinerant teachers. It had an attached private bath, an upright dresser and matching vanity topped with several books left behind by the previous occupant - light books obviously meant for bedside reading, on topics such as biochemistry and genetics.

The walls were tastefully paneled in burnt umber with taupe accents. Slate gray drapes shielded the interior from the outside world, which was just how Ned preferred it at the moment. His own apartment was decorated in bright reds and forest greens, meaning to reproduce the atmosphere from the place he'd felt the safest. The muted palette and chocolate brown wood of Xavier's Institute wasn't quite homey, but it didn't make him homesick, either.

He'd spent a lot of time in this room in the last two weeks.

To be fair, there weren't a lot of places that he could go.

After endless months looking over his shoulder, anticipating capture around every corner, he had finally stopped running. And then he stopped everything else. Some days Ned couldn't summon the will to get out of bed. He'd wake up and automatically look to his right, expecting to see Chuck across from him. Then he'd be lost again.

His life had been structured around stability. When the comforting routine of life in the Pie Hole was disrupted, he'd clung to the one remnant of comfort he had left. He'd lost his family, his friends, his home, his business - but he still had Chuck. On the night they fled Papen County, he'd kissed her glove and swore that he'd keep her safe. He reminded her of what he'd told her years ago: "You're what I need to be happy."

A part of him knew his behaviour wasn't entirely healthy. Yet for two fugitives running from kidnap and experimentation, codependency had been the least of their worries.

And now, all of those warm, happy bits she'd given him had been scooped out and replaced with mourning and fear. When the numbness wore off, the light of day revealed him to be a mess of anxieties and grief crammed into human skin. He was packed with grief; he was choking on his grief. In sudden and unpredictable moments, it pressed against the back of his eyes and poured down his face. What he needed-

Alone in his borrowed room in the dead of night, Ned choked out an absurd little laugh. What he needed was an emotional Heimlich - for someone to put their arms around him and squeeze until all that emotion came shooting out his mouth so he could breathe again.

Failing that, he needed to stay busy. The problem was this: there wasn't a lot for a dead-waking private detective to do in a school for mutants.

The directionless nervous energy had struck. Ned had surrendered to Xavier's repeated requests to join him for tea, which he suspected the telepath offered in an effort to get him out of his room. A chiding voice in his head that sounded a lot like Chuck (though everything reminded him of Chuck these days) urged him to look after himself. So he went through the mechanical motions of eating, sleeping, and washing up.

After the disastrous encounter in the library in which he had nearly had a full-blown panic attack in front of a group of ogling teenagers, Ned procured a clue pad and started tracking the times of day when areas of the mansion were least occupied so he could roam in peace. While packed in the afternoon and early evenings, the library tended to be empty in the morning. The gym was full in the early morning and later evening, but it was empty in the middle of the day. Common rooms like the kitchens were only accessible to him during classes and in the middle of the night.

With one arm in bandages and the other wrapped in a splint, his usual outlet of stress baking eluded him. When dissociated panic and troubled energy threatened to draw him into a destructive spiral, he gingerly pulled on a sweatshirt emblazoned with the Institute's logo and went for a run in the woods. He ran until the burn of his lungs and the beat of his heart overcame the whirl of his thoughts, freeing him to fall into the dreamless oblivion of exhaustion.

But the day came when Ned had been so submerged in the strange and unfamiliar that he needed a glimmer of normalcy to make it through.

He thought back to his time at boarding school and found himself in the auxiliary kitchen long after lights out. Certainly a school full of teenagers wouldn't question the appearance of a couple of pies on the counter.

Stress baking might have been his favoured coping method, but it was difficult to attempt with one arm in a splint. He fumbled his way through the prep work for the crust of a single pie before the throbbing in his broken hand begged him to wrap the dough to chill in the fridge and call it a night. He would come back to finish up the following evening.

Ned wasn't counting on a visitor.

He drummed his fingers against the countertop, resisting the urge to knock the handle of the rolling pin against his forehead. Ned reminded himself of the pie dough rule of escalating insanity: easy dough made for a tough crust. The more the dough drove him up the wall and convinced him that he had better toss the whole mess and start over, the flakier it would be.

Of course, that rule generally applied to dough that he made with two working hands. On a productive night of stress baking, he could typically prepare enough pies to fill all his ovens and still be ready for midmorning rush. Down a hand and working on foreign turf, he was limited in capability and capacity.

Pressing his cast against the handle of the rolling pin worked well enough, but he couldn't twist his hand to prevent his elbow from jabbing himself in the stomach. Which meant that his range of motion was restricted to the ten inches he could reach while locking his elbows straight out before him like a velociraptor.

Though really, wrestling dough into the right thickness felt familiar, felt right. Pie making was his strength. He felt comfortable in a kitchen. His fingers moved in familiar ways. The normalcy of working with his hands to create something out of nothing helped to grounded him in reality. It gave him an outlet for the nervous energy that thrummed through his spine and sent him running in the night. He knew what he was doing; he knew what the end product would be.

Working in an unfamiliar kitchen with improvised ingredients presented a welcome distraction, a new puzzle to solve. Learning to function with one arm in a cast forced him to focus on the mechanics behind each action.

Maybe that was what adjusting to life without Chuck would be like. Learning to live without a limb.

His jaw tensed and he shut his eyes. That wasn't helping.

Pie time, Ned reminded himself.

A voice sounded behind him.

"Working on a midnight snack, Mr. Summers?"

Ned started and turned around.

The sandy-haired boy from the library was staring at him, amusement fading into discomfort. "Sorry, I thought - hey, didn't I see you in the library last week?"

'See' was a pretty vague term. 'Caught in a flashback' was more accurate. Still, Ned nodded stiffly and offered the boy a polite smile.

Hesitating briefly in the doorway, the boy (Bobby, Ned recalled) stepped into the kitchen. "I just wanted to apologize, you know, for before. I was being an idiot. Showing off for a girl. You know how it is."

Ned laid the rolling pin back on the counter, his smile softening into something a bit more sincere. "Don't worry about it. I've done pretty stupid things for a girl before." Like, for example, killing a funeral director.

"I'm Bobby, by the way. Bobby Drake." The boy said, moving to the freezer and fetching a pint of Baskin Robbins. He grabbed a spoon from the silverware drawer and sat down on a stool by the counter.

"I'm Ned." The pie maker replied. He traded his rolling pin for a scoring knife and sliced the dough into uniform strips, which he returned to the refrigerator on a platter for when he needed them.

Bobby glanced around the kitchen at the baking materials spread about, the parchment paper and bowls and scattered flour on counters. Admittedly the kitchen was a bit of a mess, but then again, so was Ned. "So, uh, midnight snack?"

The pie maker shrugged his shoulders, pursing his lips as a thin furrow appeared between his eyebrows. "The kitchen was empty and I didn't think anyone would mind. It's nice to do something I'm good at."

The oven timer went off. Slipping an oven mitt onto his good hand, he peeked into the oven and removed the crust he'd been pre-baking. The crust was lined with parchment paper and filled with almonds to weigh the paper down and prevent the crust from puffing up. Ned removed the oven mitt and gathered the edges of the parchment paper together, lifting the almonds out of the pan and pouring them into a bowl he'd set aside for that purpose.

"Want some?" He asked, lifting his chin toward the bowl of dried almonds as he crumpled the parchment paper and tossed it in the garbage.

Bobby's eyes lingered on Ned's exposed forearm. He'd rolled his sleeves up to keep them clean as he worked, revealing healing wounds that were outlined with pairs of black dots from where the stitches had been.

The pie maker shifted uncomfortably under the Bobby's gaze, eager to distract him. "I washed my hands, I promise. Almonds?"

Bobby sat up straighter, blinking deliberately and reaching for the bowl. "Sure, thanks."

Heat still radiated from the container of nuts. Ned was about to offer a warning when a stream of cool air emanated from Bobby's fingertips, dissipating the heat instantly.

"You're too old to be a student." Bobby observed, taking a handful and began to munch.

Ned turned away, slipping the crust back into the oven to tan and resetting the timer while he measured his words.

The boy piped up before he had a chance to work out a response. "Are you an X-Man?"

"What?" He replied, incredulous.

"You just came back from a mission, right?" Bobby gestured vaguely to his injuries. "You came around the same time Logan did."

Scoffing lightly, Ned looked from the sandy-haired boy to the splint on his wrist and the lacerations on his arms. "Well, sort of. I kinda was the mission. Logan and Jean got me out of a- situation." He retrieved the defrosted bowl of raspberries, strawberries, and blackberries and drained some of the excess juice. There was no rotting fruit to be found in the mansion's kitchen. While the lack of decay would prevent Ned from imbuing the fruit with just-picked-off-the-bush freshness, at least he would be able to eat it. It was hilarious, in a dark way - hunger had been his constant companion on the road, and now that Ned had run of a kitchen, he couldn't find his appetite.

His vague explanation seemed to satisfy the teen. Although in a school for mutants that housed a team of covert agents or whatever the heck Logan and Jean were, he supposed that the students had grown accustomed to a measure of secrecy around certain activities. Ned fetched an orange from the bowl of loose fruit on the table. Grabbing a cheese grater and holding it steady with his splint, he started grating the orange zest onto a cutting board. "Looks like you've got a magic touch."

"Yup. I can create ice from the moisture in the air. I'm working on manipulating it around my body, like armour, but that's easier said than done." Bobby replied, returning to his ice cream. "What's your power?"

Ned froze for half a second, then tried to keep his face as straight as possible. "Oh - um, not anything cool like yours."

Bobby smiled at the unintentional pun.

"I can, uh, regenerate my organs." He explained, setting the grater down and sweeping the zest into the bowl of berries.

Bobby made a face. "What?"

"Yeah. I went in to get my appendix taken out and it popped right back. Three times." Ned said, reciting the practiced back story. He gestured with his splinted hand. "Skin, bones, all the other stuff heals normally. But whole parts just regrow. It's kind of a useless power."

"Not if one shuts down on you, I guess." Bobby mumbled through a spoonful of mint chocolate chip.

Ned let out humourless chuckle, adding a few spices, vanilla extract and a splash of lemon juice to the pie filling. "Yeah, I'm an organ smuggler's dizzy daydream. Apparently some folks at the hospital heard about me and figured they'd found a way to keep themselves perpetually in the black." Now, for the pièce de résistance. He hooked a finger on his collar and tugged it down to expose the crusted gash beginning at his sternum.

The spoon clattered to the granite counter top. "Holy shit." Bobby said, eyes wide in horror. "What were they gonna do, use you like an ATM?"

Ned ducked his head, looking as uncomfortable as he felt. Hopefully Bobby would attribute it to trauma rather than deception. "I don't really- I don't like talking about it. But that's what the professor got me out of. Life as a lab rat. I can't begin to-" His voice cut out with real emotion as his cover overlapped with reality.

Catching the pie maker's reluctance, Bobby cleared his throat and generously changed the subject. "So, is baking a hobby for you or a job?"

He fetched a large slotted spoon from across the kitchen. "Both, I guess. I trained as a pastry chef, but pie-making's my specialty."

The boy's eyes went distant. "My mom used to make pie. A long time ago."

"Mine, too." Ned said quietly. "I had a bakery, before- everything. The Pie Hole. Small staff, real homey. I mean, business wasn't exactly booming - I wasn't going to start franchising anytime soon, but it was nice." He mixed the filling slowly, using a light touch to keep from bruising the fruit. He smiled fondly at nothing.

The oven timer dinged again, drawing him out of his thoughts. "Anyway. That's all gone now."

Unsure of what to say, Bobby nodded.

Ned took the crust from the oven and set it on the rack to cool. A minute or two passed, then Ned looked up. "Mind if I ask you a question? And it's totally okay if you say no. I mean, I was just wondering-"

"Go for it." Bobby replied.

Anxiety twisted in his gut. He sprinkled flour lightly into the pie crust to prevent the filling from making it soggy, then started scooping the triple berry mixture into the shell. "What's the deal with your girlfriend? I saw the gloves and I caught bits and pieces in the library, but-"

Bobby relaxed. Well, that wasn't hardly a secret. "Oh, Rogue? It's her mutation. If she touches a mutant, she takes their power. If she touches a human, she takes their life force. She's pretty powerful, but, you know. Dangerous."

And he thought he had it bad. Ned paled, his knees going weak. He leaned quickly against the counter, releasing a slow breath.

The teenager frowned, leaning forward on his stool. "Hey man, you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Low blood sugar. Nothing to worry about." Ned set the bowl on the counter, popping the last blackberry into his mouth. "You can't touch her at all?"

Bobby pulled a face. "Nope. It sucks."

The pie maker looked thoughtful for a moment, his hands resting on the granite. "There's a saying I heard once. It really stuck with me."

He thought back to Olive's would-be suitor, Alfredo Aldarisio, and the potent words he'd offered to woo her. Ned remembered the muted disappointment on her face as she'd related it to him, the wistfulness of someone who'd unknowingly thrown away a winning lottery ticket.

"'If I loved you, then I would love you in any way I could. And if we could not touch, then I would draw strength from your beauty." He said as he walked to the fridge and retrieved the platter containing the strips of dough, returning them to the island in the middle of the kitchen. Ned set the platter down and finished, "And if I went blind, then I would fill my soul with the sound of your voice and the contents of your thoughts until the last spark of my love for you lit the shabby darkness of my dying mind.'"

"Whoa." Bobby said aptly.

Ned carefully separated the thin strips and began weaving the lattice together atop the triple berry filling. "There's a lot more to a relationship than touch, but - tell me this, are Rogue's powers activated by heat or skin contact?"

"Um, skin contact, I think. Why?"

Glancing up at Bobby, there was a shadow of a smile in his voice as he asked, "Tell me, what are your thoughts on saran wrap?"

notes.

Pie Dough Rule of Escalating Insanity from The Rice and Spice Cupboard's blog. She has a recipe for Chuck's apple pie with Gruyère baked into the crust. I highly recommend checking it out.

Ned's cover story is inspired by Feral of the webcomic Strong Female Protagonist.

Don't write the story. Live the story.