Part Fifteen

A/N: It's been a while since I've added a note, so bear with me on this rambly one. That thing in the first note, about the equal balance of angst and fluff? Ye-ah. Getting very angsty here. For at least another two chapters, probably more. But it'll lighten up again eventually.

I keep reacting to reviews within the fic, and I'm divided on whether this is a good or a bad thing. On the one hand, I shouldn't let what people think stop me from writing what I've planned, but on the other people are raising points that do need addressing, and provide some nice inspiration to pad out the bullet-pointed plot I've got. So if there is something in this fic you find surprising or unlikely, let me know. I might already have an explanation planned, it might be something I overlooked entirely. I am always grateful for any feedback I get. Especially that which points out really embarrassing typos in concluding sentences. Can't believed I missed that on the last chapter; I'll have to fix it soon.

Anyway, on with the show!

Jean Paul had wandered up to the infirmary to talk to Annie. While he might bring up the previous night with Bobby and how smoothly it had gone, he was in no way going up there to gossip and squeal like teenaged girls. However, Annie was in one of the private 'rooms' when he arrived, talking to someone. He could see the always recognisable silhouette of Hank, but the other shadow could have belonged to any young man in the institute.

"I can't cure this, just like that," Hank was saying. Jean Paul grimaced at his own eavesdropping, but he wasn't willing to leave again. He tried to shut out the voices and leant against the window, watching his students outside.

"We can hold it off, I'm sure," Annie was speaking now. "The ice is doing that, as well as it can, but with some good antibiotics we ought to be able to boost your natural defences."

"I'm not sure." Hank's voice was laden with pessimism. "That's depending on it being some kind of disease. I'm not yet unconvinced that this isn't a poisoning attempt."

"You mean someone's actively trying to kill me?"

Jean Paul burst through the curtain and had Bobby up against the wall feet dangling, before Annie or Hank saw the curtain move. He was screaming in French, something incoherent and panicked. He wasn't sure it had even sunk in yet, but the idea of losing Bobby like he'd lost so many other people terrified him. He was hot and cold and his heart felt like it was going to burst out of his chest and he was just so damn angry because no one had even told him and they knew he loved Bobby and Bobby was going to die and what if there was nothing he could do and-

Jean Paul found himself dangling from a huge furry paw, and Hank turned him to face that blue muzzle. He couldn't hear what Hank was saying, but the sheer indignity of the situation helped clear his head. He knew Hank was speaking loudly, slowly, clearly, but all he could hear was the quiet mumbled sobs of 'I'm sorry I'm so sorry I was going to tell you I'm sorry I didn't know how I'm sorry so sorry Jean Paul forgive me I meant to tell you I'm sorry.'

The migraine was not unexpected. Hank put him down and he stumbled. Bobby wrapped his arms around him from behind and buried a wet face into his back, still engrossed in his unintelligible monologue. Jean Paul couldn't move. He just closed his eyes and tried to remember what the world had been like five minutes ago.

When he opened them again Annie and Hank had disappeared. Bobby's head was still nestled between his shoulder blades, though he'd quietened now.

"I need to sit down," Jean Paul managed. He could barely think through the pounding headache, and the glut of emotion left him feeling nauseous. His legs felt weak and he wondered if Bobby knew how much he was contributing to keeping Jean Paul standing.

Bobby let him go and mutely pushed a chair towards him, but Jean Paul shoved past him to collapse on a bed. He thought Bobby might bolt, but instead the younger man sat down on the chair he'd proffered to Jean Paul.

"If you tell me you are sorry one more time I shall punch you so fast you will not know you were hit until you try to eat and your jaw comes loose," Jean Paul said in a low growl.

Bobby looked like he was about to burst into tears. From the hot, tight feeling in his throat, Jean Paul guessed he might do the same. He swallowed it back, swallowed it down, and wondered dully if there was any chance left to salvage his pride. Maybe he should give in now and haul Bobby into his arms, holding him tight until the world ended. God, the idea of letting him go. God. He swallowed again.

"I…" Bobby spread his hands helplessly.

"I don't want to talk," Jean Paul said sharply. "I can't."

"Yeah," Bobby said quietly. A wry smile almost flickered across his face. "That was my problem too."

After several deep breath, deep breaths that lasted several minutes, Jean Paul falsely convinced himself he was in control again. He needed to know, he couldn't sit and panic and not know first. I probably wasn't as bad as he imagined, though few things could be.

"Are you… you are… I…" His confidence collapsed again and he gave up. He leant forwards and put his head in his hands, breathing deeply. He wasn't going to cry, he wasn't going to hyperventilate, he wasn't going to be sick. His shoulders twitched and shook.

"Everyone dies," Bobby said after a few moments. "It's only a matter of when. In this business, it's invariably soon."

Jean Paul refused to let himself answer.

"Between Hank and Annie, I'm sure I'll be fine. I'm fighting it myself, you know. The ice keeps it contained."

"And when you are fully ice?" Jean Paul snapped suddenly. "How does that contain it?"

"I suppose it doesn't, but it certainly stops me from having a heart attack or something," Bobby replied coolly. "I trust Hank. I trust Annie."

Jean Paul was silent again, and after a moment's deliberation Bobby moved to sit next to him on the bed. He reached out to put his hand on Jean Paul's shoulder, and though he did hesitate for a moment, hand hovering in mid air, he finished the gesture. Jean Paul was trembling beneath his hand, so fast it felt like the vibration of his motorbike. Bobby squeezed his shoulder and felt Jean Paul stiffen. It was better than the shaking.

"I hurt more now than I ever have before," Bobby said in strangled tones, "and it's nothing to do with the ice or whatever it's holding back."

"That is just another way of saying you are sorry," Jean Paul accused him, but the malice was seeping away.

"Be strong for me," Bobby breathed. "Please, Jean Paul. Don't be angry or scared or guilty or anything, just be strong."

Jean Paul raised his head slowly and straightened up, forcing himself to look at Bobby. A tendril of ice was curling under his bobbing adam's apple, a tendril he suspected Bobby hadn't noticed yet. His eyes sparkled with frost, not tears. And he still had his hand on Jean Paul's shoulder, a comforting hand. He was asking Jean Paul for comfort and giving it to him.

Jean Paul wrapped his arms around Bobby's slender form and tried not to hold him so hard it hurt. It was a battle.

Emma Frost covered for Jean Paul, while Bobby's students were just given free time. Several rumours circulated as to the both of them calling sick days at the same time. Some of them touched on the truth, but not the depth of it. Curled together in Jean Paul's bed, neither speaking a single word, both unwilling to let themselves cry for the other's sake. Bobby stayed in his ice form, cold and hard, but Jean Paul still embraced him.

The next day, still bearing the brunt of a migraine and terrified to let Bobby out of his sight, Jean Paul took Bobby by the hand and led him down to Hank's lab, so he could find out what was going on without putting Bobby through the stress of talking about it. It was easier to hear it from any lips but those cold ones. Somewhere on the way down Bobby's hand slipped from his and it was with an apologetic smile that Bobby slipped away up the corridor, leaving Jean Paul wanting to call him back, or to at least make him promise not to die while he wasn't there.

"We're still talking in terms of mo- weeks," Hank told Jean Paul, trying to sound reassuring. The only comfort Jean Paul could derive from his words was that he was just as upset by Bobby's inevitable demise as Jean Paul was.

"It is Black Tom Cassidy's fault, is it not?" Jean Paul growled.

"Evidence seems to suggest such, but it is so unlike his preferred methods," Hank grimaced. "We haven't even established if it is poison or a disease that entered while he was wounded."

"Why not?" Jean Paul snapped, on his feet.

"Because all we get is ice," Hank said, his frustration evident. "Even blood samples turn to ice. It's significant, but we can't work out why, yet."

"And in the ice, there is nothing? No disease, no poison?" Jean Paul was almost frantic.

"There are traces of several different elements. Nothing you wouldn't expect to find in the human body, but having never checked the exact composition of Bobby's ice-form before, I don't know whether they're to be expected or not."

"I… I would have assumed that he was pure water, in his ice form," Jean Paul offered.

"Precisely, but water is very rarely pure. There is nothing in the samples I took that isn't out of proportion that you would expect in other bodily fluids."

"So he is actually frozen saliva man?" Jean Paul cocked an eyebrow.

Hank chuckled, and Jean Paul was only briefly offended. Then he allowed a small smile to touch his face despite the sense of guilt. How could he be amused - hell, how could he be making jokes at Bobby's expense - when Bobby was dying? But it made it all a little less surreal, and he was grateful for that.

"I have taken a few samples when he is iced completely, which I am still processing. I also intend to take any other samples I can, such as hair and skin. If they all turn to ice, then I'll start with some more DNA analysis."

"More?" Jean Paul asked, confused.

"Obviously it was the first test I ran, to confirm that it truly was a secondary mutation. His X-gene hasn't shown the usual changes that others, such as those of myself and Warren, have. However, there may be other changes I didn't look for." Hank scratched his left ear absently. "I will be frank with you, Northstar. I suspect I will find abnormalities in Bobby's DNA, and I do not suspect that they are the type that can be reversed. This could be a result of the slow disintegration of his DNA, where perhaps the X-gene is the most resistant while other genes, such as those responsible for the reproduction of skin, hair, even organ cells, are failing. The ice is taking over and keeping him alive."

Jean Paul collapsed back into his seat with a thud. Hank rested a large paw on his shoulder and let the news sink in.

"You… suspect," Jean Paul murmured.

"But I do not know. I will run more tests, and hopefully be proved wrong," Hank said fervently.

"If he turns all to ice… will he survive?"

"I don't know. It may be he needs to return periodically to a human form to retain brain function, it may be the ice acts as an alternative energy matrix. His X-gene may also disintegrate, if that is what's happening, and we will be left with nothing but a puddle. Until it occurs, there is no way of knowing. It was much simpler when the ice was simply a coating," Hank added wistfully. "We used to understand ourselves, once upon a time."

Bobby couldn't find a good way to phrase the question, but now, with Jean Paul curled around him in his bed, in his room, he knew he had to ask anyway. If Jean Paul got upset and left, maybe that was for the best. Bobby had had his time. He'd got what he wanted, his relationship, his comfort, and now it was time to break it off so Jean Paul wouldn't be too hurt when he died.

He really didn't want to do that. Dying men were allowed to be selfish, weren't they?

"Jean Paul?" Bobby murmured, rolling over to face his lover. He felt a little resentful that Jean Paul was even there. It was Bobby's room, for Bobby himself. If he'd wanted to spend the night with Jean Paul, he'd have gone to Jean Paul's room. He needed space, sometimes. Running away from Jean Paul earlier had only earned him a half hour's solitude in the kitchen.

"Mmhm?" Jean Paul hadn't been sleeping, but he had been trying to doze. The weight in his chest and the churning in his stomach made it hard. While usually not a cuddly sleeper, he'd found himself reaching out every few seconds to confirm Bobby was still there, until he found himself spooning the younger man protectively. Used to lying alone, he found it even harder to sleep, but at least he wasn't fighting to stay still.

"You told me you loved me last night," Bobby said hesitantly.

"Oui," Jean Paul sighed.

"You…" Bobby swallowed and rolled onto his back now, obviously avoiding Jean Paul's eyes. Staring at the ceiling, he continued, "You don't really strike me as the type, you know?"

"The type?"

"To say 'I love you'. Well, not unless you or I were at death's door." Bobby felt Jean Paul stiffen beside him, but he had greater worries. "I'm not complaining, or anything," Bobby grimaced at his own words, "but you just kinda caught me by surprise."

"I am not, as you say, 'the type'," Jean Paul said slowly. "I am not comfortable with expressing such things unless I am confident I am not alone. Even then…"

"That was it," Bobby said. "I wondered what… well, what I had done to deserve it. Does that make sense?"

Jean Paul smiled at him, tugging Bobby so they were lying face to face again. Any nerves relating to potentially imminent rejection slipped away.

"Ah, Bobby. I have loved you for a long time, not the mere weeks we have been together." He nuzzled Bobby's neck. "I even told you such, that first night, though in French. I do not love quickly, but I do with great strength."

Deciphering the sleep and emotion muddled English, Bobby smiled weakly at the sentiment.

"Why do you love me?" Bobby asked, vaguely aware that he sounded like a teenage girl. "No one else has ever managed it for long," he added by way of explanation.

Jean Paul was silent for so long Bobby cherished the sweet hope that he might have fallen asleep. Then he met Bobby's eyes, and Bobby could see something there he wasn't sure he liked. It was dark and serious and spoke of a level of commitment that would have terrified Bobby at this stage in any other situation. He wondered if Jean Paul regretted those three little words now, knowing Bobby wouldn't be around for long, or whether the brevity of their relationship was simply going to increase the intensity of it.

"I found you attractive, for the first one," Jean Paul said in a low, quiet voice, accent thicker that Bobby had ever heard it. "Soon I did see you were angry an' 'urting. My 'eart went out to you."

"I was a bastard. I am a bastard," Bobby said bitterly. "I was trying to hurt you, and everyone else. I still try to."

"So I am," Jean Paul insisted. "I knew de reasons for your being a bastard, as I know myself. I learned de reason for your 'urt and I felt more strongly for you. Also I knew you could be fun an' you made me laugh. An', and… I love you," Jean Paul finished helplessly.

"Because we're a lot alike," Bobby murmured. "Do you really think so?"

"I love you because you are you," Jean Paul said firmly, accent slipping away again. "Never doubt that."

"I know," Bobby said, a trace of irritation in his voice. "I don't doubt you, Jean Paul. You've been so sincere and earnest and serious and in love with me…" he trailed off, the anger in his voice frightening him.

"You would rather I was not?" Jean Paul said coolly, propping himself up on one elbow to lean over Bobby.

"That's not what I mean," Bobby groaned. "Look, it's late, I'm tired, and we both need to get some sleep. I don't want to skip work again."

"Skip work? I think you should stop teaching altogether," Jean Paul said firmly.

"Why?" Bobby challenged.

"Are you in denial?" Jean Paul demanded. "You are dying, Bobby. Do you want to speed it up?"

Bobby paled, and then iced up. He closed his eyes until he felt the bed shudder as Jean Paul let himself fall back on to it.

"I know I'm dying," Bobby said, surprising both of them after the silence. "I want to put as few people through this stress as possible. I didn't tell you because I knew it would hurt you, like it is. I just… I want to live as long as possible, obviously, but even more I want to actually live during that time, you understand? I don't want to sit in this room with the windows closed and the door shut and no one visiting in case I get upset or stressed or anything. I just want to keep doing what I am doing."

"Do not think about my 'urt," Jean Paul said throatily. "I just wish to be 'ere for you."

"But you are hurting!" Bobby wailed. "I need you to be here for me but I'm hurting you and, and, and I'm so scared and I just want, I want, and…" He began to cry.

Jean Paul wrapped both arms around Bobby and held him closer than he had thought possible. The cold hurt him physically, but not as much as the ache inside. How many people had he lost now? How many that he had loved? His parents, his foster parents, Walter, his daughter, even his sister in a way. Some malevolent god was guiding him into these masochistic relationships. The more likely he was to lose someone, it seemed, the stronger his love for them. It was all he knew.

"It is not fair," he murmured into Bobby's shoulder. His arms tightened around the younger man and Bobby gasped between them. Seeking out Jean Paul's lips, Bobby kissed him quiet.

It was uncomfortable, both shivery and sweaty, cramp inducing and blanket losing lying so close, but they slept like that, clutching each other as though it would make a difference to the inevitable future.