Part Sixteen
A/N: In which I go mildly overboard with hyphens and very short chapter segments. Blame the English degree.
This is also the first time I've ever felt the compulsion to start holding conversations with the characters, 'muse-style'. I don't think main characters have ever got away from me to this extent before. I'm sitting here yelling (mentally) "Enough angst! You've had enough angst! Now is plot time! I don't care how pretty he is and how sad and poignant it is and how lonely you've been, it's plot time!"
The sheer volume of exclamation marks alone ought to be an indicator of just how hard I had to work to get this back on track. The last few chapters shouldn't even exist, according to my plan.
It was driving him quietly insane.
Lying there, watching Bobby breathe, in-two-three-four out-two-three-four. Every night. Watching to make sure he didn't stop. Watching to make sure he didn't die while Jean Paul wasn't looking. Watching to make sure he didn't wake up next to a corpse, if he was honest with himself. Watching Bobby die was infinitely better than waking up next to a dead body. Not even a dead Bobby.
People were beginning to think he was the one that was ill. Forgetting what he was saying half way through sentences, unable to concentrate on any one thing for more than five minutes, falling asleep in classes and spending every available break checking up on Bobby.
They'd fought last night, really fought, and that was why Jean Paul was watching Bobby from the doorway. Despite himself he was still angry with Bobby. He'd felt so belittled, like his love and concern were only irritants. He knew - hoped - Bobby didn't really mean it the way it had sounded. But he was still angry and still falling apart at the seams so visibly. He knew Bobby could see how badly all this was affecting him. Which made Bobby feel guilty, which made Jean Paul feel guilty, which made Bobby feel worse and it was all an ever-decreasing vicious circle.
What would he do if Bobby stopped breathing now? Run over and give mouth to mouth? Try and wake him and persuade him to change to his ice form? Accept the inevitable?
Jean Paul left Bobby, breathing in-two-three out-two-three.
He landed on the roof shortly after sunrise, after watching dawn from that privileged position reserved for birds and superheroes. Logan was sitting on the roof, apparently having watched it too. For a moment Jean Paul debated landing at all, or using his speed to ensure he wouldn't be seen.
As Jean Paul's feet touched the concrete, graceful as ever - and more than part of that grace simply for an audience that never appreciated it - Logan held out a beer. He took it and sat down next to his on-again-off-again teammate.
They drank in silence, Jean Paul's metabolism reacting to the presence of a depressant in his system and making him a little drowsy. Or perhaps that was just the lack of sleep, and he was over-complicating things. He leant back against the small concrete wall meant to keep people from wandering off the roof by accident.
Logan swirled the remainder of his beer around in the can and eyed it through the keyhole. He grunted and grabbed an opened can.
"Your boy's fine," he said after a while. "He's going to stay that way for a couple of weeks at least, so you might as well get some sleep."
"He is not my boy," Jean Paul murmured in reply. There was something simply pleasant about having someone around who always knew. Something deeply irritating too, of course, but still reassuring. He didn't have to offer any explanations.
"Yer getting an ulcer," Logan added after a pause.
Jean Paul grimaced. That was a less pleasant thing about his teammate. Besides, he knew he was getting an ulcer. He wasn't eating enough to keep up with his metabolism and his stomach acid was rebelling, so that even without the constant stress and worry he'd be very much at risk. Of course, it left him with a constant stomachache, which put him off eating even further.
"I will get some anti-acids from Annie," he said. It belatedly occurred to him that these stops and starts were Logan's way of trying to draw him into something resembling a conversation. He sighed. "You expect me not to worry?" he asked bitterly.
"You got him worrying about you, and he don't want to do that. The sick are selfish."
Yes, Bobby was selfish, and it was driving Jean Paul up the wall. So selfish and so needy and sometimes Jean Paul didn't feel like a real person, just an extension of Bobby who worried when Bobby worried and smiled when Bobby smiled and who would die when Bobby died. He knew about this, knew to expect it, but the resentment wasn't going away no matter what he knew.
"Slim said to tell yer that yer taking the day off," Logan told him. "Even he can see how bad yer getting."
"Does he know about Bobby?" Jean Paul asked, accepting the news easily.
"No, on both counts." Logan snorted. "How, I don't know - rest of the mansion's well aware what's going on in that room." He added, more seriously, "Yer gonna make yerself some enemies before all this is through."
Jean Paul grimaced. "I know. Bastards."
Logan shook his head. "Not coz of you, coz of Bobby. Yer might as well expect me to smile an' nod an' be polite when Jubilee brings home her first boyfriend."
Jean Paul chuckled dryly. "People are protective of my Bobby?" he said, asking it as a question but knowing and ignoring the answer.
Logan lit a cigar and chewed on the end for a moment. Eventually, he said, "Some people are protective of you, too."
Jean Paul had considered sleeping in Bobby's room. The smells were more familiar to him now than those of his own room. Whether because Bobby was still mad at him, or he was still mad at Bobby, or whether he simply wanted some real sleep without worrying about waking up with a dead Bobby-body, he found himself in his own large bed. He hadn't slept in it since he'd last changed the sheets, and they retained some of that just-washed smell, combined with a lonely mustiness.
He was woken around lunchtime by a warm nose on his cheek. He opened an eye to see a fully dressed Bobby Drake sprawled across the covers, so close he couldn't focus on his face. He smiled and Bobby smiled.
"How you feeling?" Bobby asked, like it was Jean Paul who was slowly dying.
"Better," Jean Paul told him. "Et vous?"
"Bon," Bobby grinned at him. He nuzzled Jean Paul's cheek and stole a quick kiss. "I missed you last night," he admitted.
This was new for Bobby. New and made Jean Paul warm in a way he hadn't expected. Bobby Drake, missing intimacy? Of course, following the pattern of their relationship tomorrow night he would be throwing Jean Paul out of his room. Hot and cold, on and off.
"I missed you too, cher," Jean Paul told him, wriggling an arm out from under the covers to wrap around Bobby. He kissed the crown of Bobby's head and wondered if he had his shoes on the white spread. Bobby nestled his head into Jean Paul's chest, hair tickling Jean Paul's chin. Jean Paul expected some moment's silence, comfortable, but Bobby had words to say.
"I..." Bobby swallowed, "I love you."
Jean Paul was furious.
It was strange, lying there in the half dark with Bobby's head on his chest, looking away from him. He was angry, and he knew Bobby had expected it. Because, well, because he'd taken it for granted. He'd assumed Bobby loved him, and he hadn't, not before. Maybe not even now. Maybe he was just saying because he felt he had to, before the end. Maybe he felt obliged because Jean Paul had said it. Maybe he had just been scared of what would happen when Jean Paul realised he was alone in this.
"I know," he said quietly.
He felt Bobby relax on his chest, and he stroked Bobby's hair idly. He knew he was being stupid. Bobby would no more say 'I love you' if he didn't mean it than Jean Paul would. So what if it had taken him a little longer?
"So, who's taking your classes?" Bobby asked after a few moments silence together.
Jean Paul's mouth quirked. "Wolverine."
"Wolvie?" Bobby turned to face Jean Paul, eyes wide in disbelief.
"I knew today would be good as soon as he said so," Jean Paul told him, grinning. They shared a laugh.
The implications of Wolverine's words regarding Scott's blindness to Bobby's condition only really sank in during the briefing a few days later. Jean Paul simply stared.
"This will very much depend on you, Bobby," Scott was saying.
Bobby was nodding and looked... looked happy, in a way. Grimly happy, but definitely satisfied.
Jean Paul's mouth opened and closed.
"I knew I could depen-"
"No," Jean Paul managed to croak. "No you can't."
No one heard him, not at first, but Warren was looking over, eyes narrowing. And Jean Paul realised that Warren knew about Bobby's condition, and so did Hank, and Paige must by now, surely, and no one else was saying a damn thing.
"I do not think-" he tried again.
Bobby shot him a very cold, very hard look.
Jean Paul stood up. "I do not think Iceman is capable of this mission."
It was Cyclops's stare he chose to meet and hold. Teeth gritted, jaw firm, he stared at his reflection in the red glasses until his eyes began to water.
"And what leads you to have such little faith in your team mate?" Scott asked.
"I do not lack faith in Bobby," Jean Paul corrected him. "I am simply expressing my concern that while he might be able to complete this mission alone, it would be an unnecessary risk."
"And can you recommend someone who might go with him, or in his place?" Cyclops asked, lips barely moving.
"I am able to withstand extremes of temperature," Jean Paul told him. "I volunteer to go in his place."
"No!" Bobby was on his feet as well. "Scott, you can't let him do that!"
Scott looked from one to the other and back again. "Is there something I should know?" he asked softly.
Both men shook their heads.
"Scott, this is my mission. I'm fine with it. You know I'll be fine with it."
"Bobby, you know that you-" Jean Paul bit off the end of the sentence, not wanting to upset Bobby further by revealing his 'secret'.
"Jean Paul, I do not concur with you," Hank said. "I believe Bobby is quite capable of performing that segment of the mission alone, with no danger to his health or any other person's."
Scott turned to look at Hank. "There is something I ought to know, isn't there?" he said softly. He scanned the room, looking each team member in the eye until he reached Jean Paul.
"Northstar, if you can not give me a good reason for your objections, you can consider yourself cut from all active teams for an undetermined period of time."
Jean Paul swallowed.
"It is Bobby's health he is concerned for," Hank spoke for him.
"I want to hear Jean Paul's reason," Scott said firmly. "In fact, he can consider himself suspended if he fails to give any reason at all. I do not appreciate such interruptions in meetings."
Jean Paul ground his teeth. "As our Doctor says, I was concerned for Drake's health. As the Doct-"
"Why?"
"Ce qui?"
"Why is everyone so concerned for Bobby's health, and why ha no one seen fit to inform me of anything he might be suffering from?" Scott's gaze flicked from Jean Paul, to Hank, to Bobby, to Jean Paul again. He thought he knew where best to apply pressure to get answers.
"The ice," Jean Paul sighed.
"The ice?"
"After the trial Jean Paul seems convinced that I can't be relied on to do anything," Bobby said quickly. And... bitterly?
Scott frowned. "I'd forgotten about that. Perhaps it would be best to provide you with some back up."
"I feel he should be withdrawn entirely," Jean Paul said, trying to ignore the sharp pain Bobby's words had produced.
"You are still stepping perilously close to suspension," Scott warned him. "We have heard Hank's professional opinion," he added, turning to throw a suspicious glance at his friend, "and I see no reason to withdraw Bobby."
"It is not a secondary mutation!" Jean Paul shouted desperately. "He is sick! He is dying!"
It was some obscure hour of the morning before Scott let them all leave. Jean Paul had been silent most of the time, only responding to questions such as "How long have you known?" Bobby had had to put up with most of it, though he was hardly more responsive.
Bobby waited for everyone else to leave. Even when Scott prompted him he didn't move, only glowering at Scott. It was painful, watching him stand in the doorway like that. He hated that he'd hurt one of his oldest friends so badly. He kept the anger and resentment on his face to keep from breaking down entirely, but it wasn't the effort it might have been.
He continued to watch the door until Scott's footsteps had faded entirely. Slowly, he turned his head. His eyes fixed on Jean Paul.
Bobby launched himself across the table so violently his chair flew backwards, hitting the wall with a thump and showering the carpet with plaster dust. Despite his speed Jean Paul's reaction time was human, and Bobby had him pinned to the wall before he could move.
Bobby was breathing heavily through clenched teeth, hissing. When Jean Paul tried to move he shoved him back against the wall again, harder, icing up as he did so. He was far too angry to speak, words incapable of articulating the fury inside him. The wall began to ice over, Jean Paul freezing to it.
"Bobby..."
Bobby wrenched himself away, turning to stare at the opposite wall while he tried to find something in him that maintained a semblance of rational thought. All he needed was enough to allow him to speak.
He found words.
"I don't want you to talk to me."
The ice cracked as Jean Paul pulled himself away from the wall.
"You know I-"
"Are you deaf?"
"No." Jean Paul's voice was laced with anger too now, that same controlled edge to it suggesting a sane man ought to back down and back away now.
"How dare you?" Bobby spun around. "How could you dare?" His voice shot up an octave.
"'ow could you even think of puttin' yourself in danger like that?" Jean Paul demanded, accent thickening in anger.
"You had no right to tell them that!" Bobby shrieked.
"I love you! Does that give me no right?"
"It means nothing!" Bobby told him, freezing tears before Jean Paul could see them in his icy eyes.
"Nothin'?" Jean Paul stepped back, bumping into the wall. Bobby tried not to see his face.
"It doesn't give you the right to tell people my secrets."
"Dey are your friends, are dey not? You were not goin' to be tellin' dem?"
"Not like this!"
"An' when were you goin' to be telling' dem? Was it goin' to be written on your grave? 'I'm Sorry I Didn't Say I Was Sick'?" Jean Paul mocked Bobby's accent.
"You had no right to tell them!" Bobby repeated, no longer hiding the tears. "No right."
"I 'ad every right," Jean Paul said, voice softening. He began to move towards Bobby again. "Someone 'ad to tell dem. I was lookin' after you."
He stepped into arms reach as he finished speaking, and was rewarded with a punch that would have made Wolverine proud. He staggered sideways and collapsed to the floor. Later, he'd have matching bruises on his chin and his hip.
"And what makes you think I need you to look after me?" Bobby asked, cold as his body.
"You are sick," Jean Paul mumbled, still dazed. He had one hand to his jaw, tracing the damage.
"I don't need looking after, Beaubier. I look after myself. What makes you think you'd even be suitable for a role as my caretaker?" Bobby stepped towards him, head held high.
"I wanted to 'elp," Jean Paul said quietly. His hand dropped to the floor and he pushed himself onto his knees.
"You are overprotective," Bobby told him. He stepped over Jean Paul's still prone form and continued towards the door. "The thing you want to protect me from is the one thing you can't, and so you overcompensate. And I don't need that, understand? I don't need to be dealing with it."
Jean Paul climbed to his feet. "I can not protect you from your poison," he agreed, "but someone 'as to protect you from yourself."
"No, they don't." Bobby bit out. "You have been nothing but a nuisance since this began, Jean Paul. Understand: I want you out of my life. For the rest of it, no matter how long or short that is."
Bobby was a few paces from the doorway when Jean Paul began to breathe again. To think again.
"Do you want to die?"
Bobby stopped midstep.
"Are you trying to die?"
Bobby turned around slowly.
"When did you become so casual to death?" Jean Paul said, looking Bobby in the eyes and holding that gaze. His mouth was a thin cruel line. His head was lowered so that he stared at Bobby through his eyelashes. He looked demonic with his pointed ears and flashing eyes. Bobby took a deep breath, trying to squash the terror that had risen inside him.
"I'm not," Bobby answered, voice much more uncertain than he would have liked.
"Pourquoi essayez-vous de vous tuer?"
Bobby hurled a stream of ice at his lover, who dodged easily.
The temperature in the room dropped and continued dropping. Bobby made several more attempts to freeze Jean Paul still, resulting in a criss-cross of ice beams that trapped both of them in opposite corners of the room. As a final resort Bobby began to draw moisture from the air and from Jean Paul.
"Am I a bad man for not wanting you dead?"
Bobby hit Jean Paul square in the chest with a bolt of ice, throwing him through the large window at the end of the room. Dehydrated, cold, winded, mildly concussed from the earlier punch, emotionally drained. He hit the ground two stories below and crumpled.
Bobby was looking down at him, fingers curled around shards of glass. Slowly he allowed himself to slip back into 'human', but the pain and horror and regret he expected didn't come.
A hand came to rest on his shoulder, squeezing gently. Bobby crossed his opposite arm over his body and gripped the hand.
"We need to talk, Bobby," Warren said.