"Heather? You okay?"
Heather looked up from her untouched plate - the syrup soaked waffles and unused silverware - and sighed at Joey's concerned expression. "I - I'm just not hungry." In fact, the sight of the food almost made her skin crawl. She didn't want to eat - she wanted to crawl back into her bed, burrow deep in her blankets and never surface again. But that wasn't an option. Especially now.
"No, it's fine. More for me." Joey reached over the table, stabbing the waffle with his fork and carrying it off. Taking a big bite, he gulped before asking, "So, how's Charles?"
Heather paused, not even knowing where to start. When Hank and she had arrived back at the hospital, Moira had been waiting for them with news. She had explained that Charles' surgery hadn't taken up the full 10 hour span, and he had been sent to the recovery room almost 3 hours ahead of schedule. When they had entered the room to talk to the man, he was sleepy, his blue eyes drooping and his voice slow, but there was a soft smile on his face and Heather - Heather let herself believe everything was going to be okay.
That was when the doctor had pulled them all out of the room to explain.
"...we could fix the spine..."
"...we couldn't fix the spinal cord..."
"...never walk again..."
Heather had never felt so numb in her life.
She stayed quiet for a moment, before replying slowly, hoping her voice wouldn't crack, "He - he looked good. When I saw him." Joey nodded thoughtfully at that, before asking, "What'd the doc say?" Another pause. Heather tried to breathe, but the air felt heavy, too heavy for her lungs. "He can't walk," she finally choked out.
"Jesus - "
"Let's just - not talk about it, okay?"
Joey nodded at that, and Heather couldn't help but let out a sigh of relief. There was silence at their table as Joey finished his waffle and Heather finally took a sip of the coffee before her, the drink doing nothing to warm the numbness inside of her. "Now," Joey finally said, "Are you going to explain what's going on? Why were you in Cuba? Who's Erik? What exactly happened to Charles? Why are you acting so weird?"
With each question, Heather sunk farther into her chair, hoping that maybe she could disappear and avoid this conversation altogether. No luck there, as Joey was watching her like a hawk. She sighed, sitting back up, her hands nervously twisting her skirt. "You see - " She began, before trying to rethink her words. "I - There's this thing - Have you ever heard of mutants?"
Joey's eyebrows furrowed together. "Mutants?"
"People with - "
" - with mutations, yeah, yeah, I know, but what do they have to do with this?"
Heather took a deep breath, telling herself it was now or never. "I'm a mutant, Joey. And so is Charles and - and Erik." Even saying his name hurt. Joey blinked a few times, his green eyes widening, before he looked around quickly and leaned over. "You're serious?" He whispered, and Heather nodded.
"Heather, that - that's great! I wish you would have told me before, I mean, I wouldn't have been much help figuring it all out, but I guess I would have been more understanding. So - do you, like, spit fire or move stuff with your mind?"
Heather let out a loud laugh at that. "No, no, I just see dead people." Joey's eyes widened again. "Woah. That's - well, actually, that kind of makes sense. That explains the times I'd hear you talking to yourself." Heather blushed in embarrassment at that because - oh god, he probably thought she was insane for a long time - before shaking her head wildly. "Okay, okay, let's - just get off of that subject."
Glancing at the man, she noticed how he squirmed in his chair, looking a little paler than before. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing, I just - "
" - Joey, tell me - "
" - I don't know if I - "
" - Joey."
Joey looked at her, his eyes looking more and more panicked. He glanced around again, as if there was someone - something - that could help himself out of this conversation, but, finding nothing, he sighed. "The CIA and FBI are working together to investigate what happened in Cuba with the - mutants."
This defiantly shocked Heather. "But they never get along. They hate each other."
"Exactly. But they, uh, keep saying things like 'we need to work together against a mutual enemy.'" Heather stared at Joey, unable to even process what he had said. A mutual enemy. Did the government really see them as threats? Alright, so maybe some of them did have rather destructive powers, but they - at least most of them - weren't trying to hurt others. "So what are they going to do?"
"I really don't know, Heather. They - they've been having meetings for the last two days, talking about what they should do. If we should - " Joey paused, his eyes leaving her's and instead focusing on the table cloth. Heather's hands tightened their grip on her skirt. "Should what?" She questioned firmly. Joey stayed silent, and after a second, Heather leaned forward, deciding to press him for answers. "What is it, Joey?"
"If - if we should consider mutants as a threat. And then if we come to that conclusion, if we should - destroy the threat."
They spend another two weeks at the hospital in DC - with Joey bringing them fast food and running up to the mansion to grab extra changes of clothes for them all, while the rest of them stood by Charles' bedside, helping him sit up and watching as the therapist taught him how to work the wheelchair.
By the time they were told that Charles could go home, Heather didn't even know if she could wash the sterile smell from her clothes or body. The smell clung to each of them - a constant remainder of where they had been and what had happened - and Heather wanted nothing more than to take a shower with soap that hadn't been borrowed from the hospital or hotel.
It was a sunny November day, the air crisp and clean, when they finally were able to wheel Charles outside of the hospital. The man winced at the brightness, bringing his hand up to shield his eyes, but his face softened, a smile findings its way onto his face. They all helped him into the van, while Joey put the wheelchair in the back, instructing Alex on how to put it back together when they got to Westchester.
Once everything was loaded up, Joey came the passenger window, where Heather was sitting, and leaned in. "Remember," he said, "If you need anything at all, just call. I'll try to keep you updated about - about everything." Heather nodded, "I will. Just be careful, Joey." Hank started the engine, before thanking Joey, an action that was followed by the others quickly adding their own thanks.
The house was defiantly not built for wheelchairs - they had to carry Charles up the front stairs, had to carry him up the stairs to his room, had to push valuable vases and plants out of his path just so he wouldn't run into anything. It was hard to adjust to at first, the fact that their friend was now paralyzed and their life seemed - at least at that very moment - to revolve around making sure he didn't accidentally hurt himself.
The boys tried to make do, however. Alex and Sean spent a whole day, building ramps for the smaller sets of stairs throughout the house - it shouldn't have taken a day but they hadn't exactly known how to build ramps at the beginning and after several trips to the lumberyard, many slivers, and a lot of broken nails, their wooden ramps were a work of art.
Hank even talked to Charles about adding an elevator into the home, just to make things easier, but Heather didn't think that was going to take off very soon, as Hank seemed engrossed in another project altogether - adding something to the house called Cerebro. Heather didn't understand it, but the boys seemed to, so she didn't really question it.
Moira spent most of her days out walking with Charles, claiming that he needed to get some more sun, that he looked paler than a ghost. Heather noticed how close the two were, the way Moira looked at Charles, and something about it made her uneasy - maybe it was her bad experience with Erik or maybe it was that she was afraid Moira would tell the CIA all about them.
It was about a week after they returned home that Charles came to Heather with an interesting question.
"You - you want to start a school?"
"For mutants."
"For mutants," Heather repeated, taking a sip of her coffee, "Okay, alright. Um, how do we know that it'll work out? Or that we'll find students? Or that any of us are qualified to be a teacher?" Charles hummed, smoothing the blanket that rested over his legs, "That, my friend, is what Cerebro is for. It'll help me find other mutants, ones that are young or need guidance. And, as for the qualification, well, I'm pretty sure the state wouldn't be checking our criteria."
Heather snorted at that, before looking at Charles, his hopeful, tired eyes, and let out a sigh. "Fine, fine, I'll do it."
Around Thanksgiving, Moira and Charles went out for a walk, with only Charles returning an hour later, his face rather solemn. Heather looked at Sean in confusion, and Sean - dear, dear Sean - whispered, "He didn't, like, kill her, did he?"
"No," Heather gasped, "I mean, at least, I don't think - Well, I don't - Shut up, Sean." He held his hands up in defeat, backing away from her, just as Hank asked slowly, "Charles, where is Moira?" Charles was silent for a while, the others looking at each other, and Heather started to reconsider what Sean had said.
"Gone," he finally responded, his voice soft. "What do you mean gone?" Heather questioned, maybe a little too sharply, as Charles winced, adding, "I sent her away. We couldn't take any risks." His voice was surprisingly empty of emotion, something that she had never heard from Charles, and this - this new side of him was a shock to Heather.
Charles wheeled away then, and the other boys slowly went on with their day - each sad in their own way - while the numbness in Heather returned.
Another friend was gone.
The week before Christmas, Heather woke up and rolled onto her back, her stomach somersaulting violently, before she sprung up and raced to the bathroom. She was barely able to open the toilet seat before she was throwing up the contents of her stomach.
After that, each morning was similar.
Some mornings were great - no vomiting when she woke up - and she'd go about her day, helping the others design their classrooms, helping Hank with Cerebro and taking Charles for walks, but one wrong smell of food would have her flying to the bathroom in tears.
She had tried to hide it from the boys at first, hoping this bout of stomach flu would just pass, but after a certain incident two days before Christmas - the one that she now referred to as the "we-will-never-talk-about-this" incident or what Sean liked to call it "the-time-Heather-threw-up-on-my-shoes" - she had been forced to explain the whole illness to them.
Hank had taken her temperature and, after confirming it was normal, told her to make an appointment. "You could have picked something up while we were in Cuba," he added, putting the thermometer back into the cabinet and leaving her to the call. As Heather dialed the number, she
silently hoped that the doctor wouldn't be in - it was almost Christmas after all - but luck was not on her side.
The doctor was full for that day, but tomorrow, he claimed, was free. He'd be happy for her to come in.
So that was settled.
Heather sat on the bench, the wax paper crinkling under the butt and her feet swinging like she was a small child. She nervously cracked her knuckles, as the nurse quickly wrote down her height and weight, her blood pressure, and left the room, her red lips curling in a smile as she promised that "the doctor will be right with you".
She turned her attention to the decorations that surrounded her. Most were done by children, each signed in their sprawl, usually with a large thanks! on the side. The red and green of the decorations stood out against the bright, white paint covering the walls, but Heather enjoyed the contrast.
Hearing the door open, Heather's head whipped around and she caught sight of the doctor - a tall, wrinkled man with dark curls and an upturned nose - scrambling something on the clipboard in his hands before looking up at Heather with an easy smile. "So what seems to be the matter today?"
Heather squirmed, watching the doctor pull out the chair beside the desk and take a seat, his eyes focused on her. "Well, I've been throwing up for the past week or so."
"Have you had a fever?"
"No."
The doctor looked curious. "Any other symptoms? Chills, coughing, fainting, aches?"
"No, not - Well, I've been sleeping more lately. And I've, uh, had to pee more if that helps." The man looked thoughtful for a moment, writing something on the paper again, before he questioned her further, "Ma'am, are you sexually active?" Heather's eyes widened and she stuttered, "N-No, well, not really, I just - you see - it was a one time thing." He raised an eyebrow at her and she slouched down, knowing that he was judging her heavily.
"And when was your last menstrual cycle?"
Heather froze. No, there was no way. She couldn't be - She tried to think back to her last period, but everything was so blurry, she'd be taking care of Charles, she didn't really have time to - "Two or three weeks ago," she responded softly, "But - but it was light."
The man hummed, before he instructed her to lay down on her back and lift up her shirt over her stomach. He pressed his cold hands against her stomach, asking each time, "Does it hurt? Is it tender?" Which, yes, it was. She tensed up each time and wanted nothing more the squirm away from his hands, but she let him finish the exam.
"I'll need to take some blood for a lab test," he explained and Heather nodded, the numbness slowly returning. She couldn't be. There was no way. She wasn't ready for this, she wasn't ready for - for a kid.
The needle prick stung and Heather felt the need to vomit once more when she saw the red liquid inside of the small capsule, but she bit her lip, holding it all back, as the doctor explained he would be back and left with her blood. The test took a while, and Heather sat on the bench the entire time, her hands clasped together tightly, as she waited desperately for the results.
When the doctor returned, he closed the door slowly and softly, and took his seat once more at the desk. Heather looked to him anxiously, nearly shaking from fear, her heart pounding so loud she was afraid he could hear it too. "Your results came back," the man commented, his voice calm.
"Congratulations, Miss. Coleman. You're pregnant."
A/N: This chapter sucks, but I just needed to get it done.
Sorry for the wait, but I moved out of my house and suffered through some major drama thanks to my dad. But I'm back now and that's all that matters.
Now, in this book, I'm actually allowing people to vote on what Heather should have (I have all the genders and names picked out for the kids in Calling All Angels, so this is your only choice) and you can do that by either commenting or voting in the poll I have posted on page. You can also comment a kid's name too if you'd like!
Either way, thanks for the support and for everything!
