She took him in when his world fell. Offered him a shelter from prying eyes and pitying looks. Kept others at arms length when he needed solitude, offered a warm shoulder when he needed comfort. Listened when he talked. Delirious ramblings in his sleep, bitter words loaded with self-hatred when he was awake.
Days went by, turning to weeks. Weeks went by, turning to months.
A year passed.
Then came morning when he opened his eyes and really saw her. Stripped bare from the wings and halo he had pictured upon her. She wasn’t a supernatural, ethereal being. She was just a girl. Tiny slip of a girl who had once sought safety from his trailer. And she was hurting, pain etched to her whole being. Every word she spoke, every move she made was carefully considered in advance, restrained.
He started to observe her closer, new kind of curiosity and worry sparkling in his brain. When ever she was around her friends, she was laughing and having fun. Joking, teasing, mingling with people. Being the girl she used to be before.
When she was around him, it was a completely different matter. She became timid and withdrawn. Serious. She was walking on eggshells. Guarding her words, hardly ever smiling.
It was clear she was hurting because of him. And yet she let him stay. Not once she had told him to leave. Not once had she complained about a thing. Not once had she stopped his ranting, and he had begun to suspect that it was his words that hurt her the most. Not the everyday words, the ones that were spoken with casual tone. The words that hurt her were whispered with low, hushed tones, during moments when the weight of past hung heavy on his shoulders. When memory of Red Queen haunted him.
He made a decision. He would try to avoid her when the need to remember surfaced. He would stay away until the feel of slippery blood on his hands and scent of it evaporated.
Another year passed. She was slowly drifting away from him. There still were days he could see the halo and wings. Days he felt drawn to her, the need to seek solace. On those days he ran. Started his bike and drove off, to rant and rave dark thoughts away to total strangers inhabiting roadhouses he visited.
Third year went by. They greeted politely when they passed each other at the halls and corridors at Xavier’s. From time to time he could feel something, something more than just the usual recognition of an acquaintance, but all consuming need to be wrapped up to her presence was gone.
At the beginning of the fourth year his interest in her sparked again. Just a casual touch, she brushed past him in a narrow corridor and back of her hand touched his for a second before she was gone. Touchable, yet not touched. No scent of another male was mingling with her own. Just the usual vanilla and peppermint he had learned to relate to her.
If she noticed his careful intrusions to her privacy, short recons to her room when she wasn’t there, she never said anything. When those trips didn’t provide him with enough clues, he sought out the next best target. Her friends.
They were less than friendly, trying to avoid him and his blunt questions, fleeing from the scene when he arrived, but after careful plotting he managed to get one of them cornered to the Danger Room. She refused to give any specific information, but told him her theory about his little angel. That they had actually sat down and talked about her at one night. They had come to conclusion that she was waiting. For what, she couldn’t tell.
Armed with this new scrap of information he once again returned to her room. She was out, would be for next few hours at least.
Small things. Casual things. Knick-knacks arranged to a certain way. They gave him the next clue. He found a small silver key from a small figurine meant to keep rings in it. Too small to open a door. Too big to open a diary. He sneaked around, trying to find anything with a lock on it.
He found it from the far corner of her closet, tucked under old shoes and schoolbag. A small locked box. He skimmed the smooth metal surface with his fingertips. Pushed the key to the lock and opened it. Opted not to look inside. Not yet. He locked it again and returned the key.
He returned to her room many times during the next week, just to look at the box. Mind swinging between curiosity and fear. Every time curiosity spurred him to open the lock, but fear made him lock it again. Finally, after gotten nearly caught he thought it would be wisest to leave it alone.
Old vices kept coming back to him, no matter how hard he tried to fight them. He noticed that he was following her around again, like a lost puppy. Drooling at her heels, overjoyed of the scraps of attention he managed to steal from her. His decision to not to burden her with his worries started to crack. More than once a week he dragged her to the garden, just to sit and listen him go on about everything that was wrong in his life.
She never complained, just sat there and listened, then offered some ideas with a calm voice that soothed his nerves. Once he found a white feather from the ground near the bench they used to sit. He pocketed it. He wasn’t sure if it had been real, because after he got in to his room and was going to take it out, just to touch and look at it, it was gone. Gone like the girl he once knew.
She had a life. She had friends. She had a skin that could be touched.
He had no life. He had no friends. Nobody except her could touch him.
At the end of the fourth year he was getting desperate. The frail connection between them, thin golden chain that had been there from the beginning was gone. He had tried to seek it, find a familiar ground with her, but there was nothing. Nothing he could grasp, no way to connect with her. All he had were their nightly conversations, and those had gotten far and few after she had taken the habit of locking her door when she went to sleep.
He spent New Year’s Eve in med lab. Concussion. People came to see him, bringing a whiff of champagne and festivities. Decorating the room he was in with bright colored balloons and streamers.
She came to see him minute past midnight. Climbed on the bed and straddled him. Placed a kiss to the corner of his mouth and fell to sleep on his chest. Something started to shift.
Next morning he woke up alone. There was a white feather on the floor. He didn’t try to touch it. Most likely his fingers would grasp it. He would pick it up, and within few minutes it would be gone. He put on his clothes and walked out. On his way to the elevator he changed his mind.
Feather was still there. He crouched and poked it with his finger. It felt real enough. He picked it up, bringing it under his nose for closer inspection. Vanilla and peppermint. This time he didn’t let go of it. He kept it in his hand. In the elevator he opened his fist. It was empty.
He wasn’t sure of what to think about. There was every possibility in the world that he wasn’t quite right in the head. In fact many people would have been ready to swear for that. There were days he was one of those people, but lately he had been feeling sane. If one left out disappearing feathers from the equation. He hadn’t even seen a halo or wings on her for several months now.
“You told me he was going to get better!” Her angry voice had stopped him. He was standing behind a hidden door, fingers skimming the polished wooden paneling on it. Door to Professor Xavier’s study. She was in there. Room was soundproofed, but his keen sense of hearing could pick up her voice from anywhere. Professor spoke briefly. It was something she didn’t like.
“That’s what you said year ago! And the year before that! And a year before that year!” And again professor answered something.
“Fuck you! You are just afraid you’ll loose him! What kind of a person are you? You make big speeches about how we all should behave and start to like each other, how humans and mutants should join together for the common good, and in the same time you’re using him!” Professor’s answer was brief.
“You’re no better than Eric!”
He retreated to the shadows when door was opening. She stormed out, rage evident on her face and posture. Now he could hear Professor shouting after her.
“If you look at the tapes, you will realize why it must be done!” He resisted the urge to walk in and ask what was going on. Apparently she had taken another lost soul under her wings, and Professor wasn’t agreeing with her.
Week went by. He hardly saw her. She had suddenly gotten awfully busy and secretive. Sneaking out in odd hours, sneaking back in even odder ones. Hiding stuff behind her back. Taking notes. Making short phone calls that tended to end abruptly when he walked in to room. Then one night she came in to his room, reeking of fear, excitement and anticipation.
“Get up and put some clothes on,” she whispered. He obeyed.
“Take this,” she said, offering him a small, white capsule. He hesitated only a moment before swallowing it. Almost instantly he could feel contents of it in his blood. What ever it was, it made him drowsy. Messed up his brain. Made him see and feel things. He was walking, hand clasped to hers. Then he was sitting beside her. They were both sitting, but they were moving at the same time. He could see scenery around them changing. Hours changed. Days changed. She kept feeding him those small capsules, and he lost the track of time.
Two capsules in the morning as soon as he woke up. Two more at noon. One before bedtime. At some point he realized they were in a car. She was driving. He tried to ask her what was going on, but he couldn’t find the words, so he let it slip away. It didn’t matter.
At some point he began to wonder what was her purpose behind this. Why keep him drugged? She had to know he would have come along willingly. Would stay with her willingly. He raised his hand and reached for her. It took all his strength, and his palm fell flat on her thigh. She threw a sad smile to him, covered his hand with hers and turned her attention back to the road ahead.
“I’m sorry. But I make sure you get better. I promise,” she said. He wanted to tell her he was already better. No need to give him drugs anymore. Again his mouth failed him. She squeezed his hand reassuringly, and grey cloud and wads of cotton in his brain didn’t matter anymore.
He took in his surroundings. He was alone in a bed. In a room. Dark, wooden walls. Soft pillow. Warm blanket thrown over him. He tried to sit up, but opted to lie down when moving made everything melt and twirl around him. Made him melt and twirl.
She was there, feeding him soup. He was feeling better already. No more capsules. Two days without drugs, and his system was slowly clearing up. Still not strong or sane enough to speak, but better. He was able to think, form coherent thoughts. Keep track of the time.
Two more days passed before she told him everything. Everything about how Professor had taken over his mind after he had killed the Dark Phoenix. How Professor had used his confused and fragile state of mind as an excuse to latch on to him like a leech. How Professor had refused to let go even after it became apparent he wasn’t in need of mental crutches anymore.
She had drugged him to get rid of the Professor, and keep him off from their tracks. Drug she had used altered his brainwaves. She had taken the same treatment a week before they left. She had driven around the country aimlessly, until she had found a suitable, remote location. A small cabin in the middle of woods. She had bought the cabin, and lands surrounding it.
They were currently sitting at the front porch of the cabin, him smoking a cigar and she just relaxing. He had still some difficulties to speak his mind, but it was getting easier. He was sure it would get almost too easy, when he managed to form a complete sentence, and saw her whole being light up upon hearing his words.
“I missed you.”
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