x-Chapter 3:-x
02:23 January 3
Xavier's Institute, the Kitchen
"Whoa, whoa," Logan says. "Back the hell up. There was no one there?"
"We were alone," Laura confirms. Her hair and clothes are almost dry. Her fingers are still clasped around the whiskey flask, even though it has been
empty for almost an hour. She needs something to hold while she speaks.
"That makes no sense," Logan says. "Why would anyone do that? These guys aren't in the catch-and-release business."
"There were no guards. The facility was deserted. We—"
Unknown time, September 13or 14
Location unknown
Laura limps down the road, half-dragging the nearly unconscious boy who is leaning his head on her shoulder, his eyes sliding shut every few seconds.
Something is definitely wrong. They have been walking for an hour, and are still in the middle of nowhere. There is only a deserted highway, and fields of
dry grass on either side. And sand. Laura has yet to see a car pass. The air is still and cool.
"I'm thirsty," Julian says. "Need to sit down."
"No." Laura clutches his hand which hangs over her shoulder. "You can rest later, when we are safe. We are not safe here. You will die if you stop."
"Mmmkay." His knees buckle and Laura fights for a second to keep him up.
Laura sniffs the air. Still nothing, except for them.
21:27, September 15
Providence Hospital, Sierra Vista, Arizona
Laura takes Julian to the small town hospital, but discovers they have no I.D. Even worse, the head nurse recognizes her as a mutant from
TV (a glimpse of her on a publication of the mansion) and the bigot denies them assistance.
Julian is delirious now, talking to his mother and his dead friends in turn.
"Brian is not here," she tells him repeatedly, until she accepts that he is beyond coherent cognitive processes. She remains silent and
tight-lipped as she listens to him babble on about how he is sorry.
Laura finally lets him sit down in the alleyway behind the hospital. She knows what she must do, but she is afraid to leave him, even for the
short time it will take her to obtain the supplies necessary. She will perform the first aid herself.
"I will be back. Do not move." She touches his shoulder.
"Okay, but where's the icecream? And what if the dog comes?"
"Julian, be quiet."
"But mom!"
"Your mother is not here."
"I want my mom," he says, looking at the ground. His eyes are glassy. She touches his forehead again, experiencing an emotion she
understands. Wishing for one's mother.
"Remain here, and stay awake. I will be back." She leaves, doubting herself every step of the way. She must move quickly, and silently, to steal what is needed.
02:32 January 3
Xavier's Institute, the Kitchen
"You knocked over a hospital?" Logan asks.
"Yes." Laura looks irritated. He has interrupted her again.
"Continue," Logan says, raising a hand in apology.
21:35, September 15
Providence Hospital, Sierra Vista, Arizona
Laura waits for an unattended ward; the opportunity comes quickly, as medical staff rush to the aid of a new arrival: a burn victim. She can
smell the melted flesh, bitter like blackened toast. She slips sideways into a ward; there is an elderly man in the bed, with tubing hooked
up to his nostrils. He is asleep.
Laura kneels and rummages quietly through the cabinet beside the stretcher; gauze, suture, needles…alcohol…she shoves them into a plastic
bag she has found, then straightens. The old man is watching her with wide eyes. She presses a finger to her lips; he suddenly smiles and
winks, and with embarrassment she realizes he has been watching her.
No matter. Laura smiles back hesitantly then slips out the way she came, trying to hide the bag in her jacket. It bulges but then again bulging
stomachs on sexually mature females are not all that unusual in this hospital.
21:49, September 15
Providence Hospital, Sierra Vista, Arizona
"Julian. Wake up." Laura realizes it was a mistake to leave him unattended. He looks worse, and now he is shivering. She remembers her jacket,
shrugs it off and tucks it around his shoulders carefully.
"I have water."
The boy stirs slightly, opens his eyes. Holds out his hand for the bottle she saw on an unattended breakfast cart, luckily unopened. She's managed
to steal some toast as well, but she thinks it will be better if she takes care of his injuries first. He might vomit from the pain of the sutures, given his
state, and that would be an impractical waste of food substance.
He drinks, his hand shaky, and spills some water onto his torn and bloody shirt. Laura reaches into the bag and begins to pull out the case of needles
and suture; he stops, the bottle still at his lips. The water seems to have restored a little of his lucidity; he is aware that she is present. And what
she is planning.
"You can't be serious."
"The wound must be closed. It is near a major vein. It will get infected, and if it opens you could die, or lose the limb."
"Laura—at least tell me you brought painkillers."
"They were inaccessible, too well guarded. They are also unnecessary."
Julian stares at the needle.
She pops a claw. "Your pants need to be removed. I cannot access the wound."
"Don't cut them—these are all I have." He makes a face and shifts, undoing his belt and trying to push the garment down, out of the way. The blood has
caused it to stick, and he can't do it. He leans his head back against the wall in pain.
"Stop. You are making it worse." Laura touches his shoulder. "I will repair them later. There is a needle and thread."
Julian doesn't answer. Carefully she runs her claw down his thigh, separating the fabric of his jeans and revealing the mess of blood and severed tissue.
Laura is used to wounds—she is at home with wounds—but she is still slightly upset, possibly because she cares about
the being this particular tissue belongs to.
She makes another cut, forming a large flap on both sides. She carefully peels the fabric away from the wound (noting his pulse as it increases
and his breath as it catches), then picks up the bottle of alcohol and uncaps it.
"PLEASE—no!" Julian's eyes are open again and he stares at the bottle in pure fear. Laura is patient. "Your wound will be infected without it, and feel much
worse. Tolerate the pain now, and it may heal."
Julian closes his eyes, then nods. She pours.
"FUCKING SON OF A—" he yells quite loudly, startling her even though she is prepared for a reaction. She is not unaware of the pain she is causing
him, having experienced (and survived) alcohol torture by the facility.
She smells salt, and looks at his face. Tears at the corners of his eyes, from pain. She wipes her thumb across the lids, forcing the beads away, and gives
him a small smile. "It will stop soon. You…did well." Laura is not used to praising people, but she is aware that Julian is comforted by such notions.
"R-really?"
"Yes. Try to remain still." She picks up a needle, threads the suture through it.
"This is going to hurt more."
23:21, September 15
Sandman Hotel, Sierra Vista, Arizona
Laura sits in the chair, watching Julian sleep. Having no money and no access to funds, she has snuck him into the hotel, using her claws to pop the lock. She
only hopes that no one will rent the room (she has chosen an odd number on the top floor that is least likely to be rented, since there are vacancies below
and this hotel seems to fill its rooms in numerical order).
She has sewn up Julian's wound the best she could. Four stitches on a severed muscle, five on another, and seven to close the wound. After the third total
stitch, she gave him a piece of wood to bite down on, finding his noises of pain distracting. She wonders if she should have knocked him unconscious first;
she is worried, however, that his body has undergone too much trauma already, and that any further would break whatever delicate grasp on a chance of
recovery he has left. He is sleeping fitfully now, murmuring into the pillow and twitching.
Laura thinks. She should call the X-men—Logan. Would they help her? Emma Frost has made it clear that there is no place for her there. Returning was a
mistake. Julian is in danger now, and if she returns she will prove them right.
She doesn't care about that.
What she cares about is that the whole attack was so strange. To leave them unguarded, after going through all that trouble to find them in the first place.
To her, it signifies that whoever their assailants were wanted them to escape.
But why?
To reach the X-men, of course. Laura can see that right away. It is a good strategy. That means that Laura will have to make sure they stay away from the
X-men, to prevent whatever plan their assailants have in store.
She sighs, leans her cheek on her hand, continues to watch the boy. She feels again that pressure—that fear—of having something she cares about outside
her body, where she can't heal it. He is fragile. She is afraid she is going to lose him, like she lost her mother.
10:11, September 16
Sandman Hotel, Sierra Vista, Arizona
Laura jolts out of the doze she fell into, awakened by the sound of footsteps in the hall. A cart. Housekeeping. She springs to the bed
and shakes Julian's shoulder urgently. They must not be caught.
His eyes flicker open, and he smiles slightly at seeing her, then frowns. She doesn't look happy. Then the pain hits him and he wishes he was asleep again.
"Laura—"
"Be quiet. We must go," Laura hisses. She pulls on his arm, forcing him to sit, and quickly tugs him to his feet, ignoring his pained expression. There is a
sound—unlocking. She half-drags him to the balcony door; it closes behind them just as the room door opens.
She presses Julian against the siding, holding a finger to her lips. She's been doing that a lot lately. He glances at the door, at the space between the
curtain and the wall, and sees the housekeeper carrying a rag; he does not make further comment. They stand in silence for ten, twenty minutes, Julian
only standing with Laura's assistance, her hands clasping his upper arms. His leg is throbbing, and beads of sweat are running down his forehead
again. His eyes are bloodshot—the whites are an angry pink.
After about thirty minutes, Laura nods and pulls the door open again, having heard the lady move her cart down the hall to the elevator. She helps
Julian in, and with her assistance (and a biting of his lip) he manages to raise the injured limb over the doorsill. If only his powers would work, he thinks!
He'd be able to fly and it would heal quickly. Or better yet, he could lie still in bed and bring whatever he wanted within his reach. He also wouldn't be
squatting in a hotel like the homeless person he'd once accused Nori of being. Oh the irony. Laura leans him against the tall dresser, then surveys
him, thinking too.
Then she makes that sound—snff—the one that brought them to this time and place in the first place—and he forgets what he was just thinking. He eyes
Laura back, noting the ivory tone of her skin, and how thick her eyelashes are, and how full her red lips look when she purses them. Oh, and the curves.
Her green eyes stare at him. She opens the mouth he was just admiring, and the words that come out are…
"You have not bathed for several days, and you are beginning to have an offensive odor."
…not flattering.
Julian has learned to accept this—she is never going to be thinking the same thing he is. Or if she is, she won't say it out loud. Laura is practical,
strategical, pure logic—nothing like Sofia, or Nori, or Cessily, or any of the other girls he's come to know. If she observes something, she will point it
out, even if it hurts others' feelings, because she doesn't understand it will have that effect.
He accepts it because that is all that Laura knows. Before escaping her creators, she wasn't aware of what a feeling was. Because her creators certainly
weren't. He doesn't know the half of it—he's sure—but at least that much is clear, from reading her mother's letter; so he accepts these fragments, blunt
points of information, and tries to treat them like they are normal, with the occasional correction, in the interest of teaching her how to be more human.
"And what are you going to do about it?" he teases.
Laura isn't aware that he is joking. Her eyes are serious, her face straight. "I will assist you to cleanse, then remove the dressing over your wound, check
for damage to the stitches, and bathe it in rubbing alcohol to clear out any pus that has accumulated. I—"
Leaning one elbow on the dresser top for support, he reaches out and puts a finger to her lips. "I didn't mean that," he says. This is another thing he is
learning to do—to be confident about touching her without holding himself back. It took him a while to realize there should be no barriers, that he had
admitted to himself that she was something.
"Oh." Laura's eyes widen as her other senses fill her in. "You are seriously wounded, in an area of critical blood transference. You should not engage in
strenuous physical activities at this time, including copu—"
He runs his finger down her face. "No fun to play by the rules all the time," he says. Laura considers this, then leans forwards slightly, her nose
brushing against the hollow of his throat.
Snff.