Fanfic Time: Flotsam part 19
Continued from yesterday:
They were watching _The Bluebird_ with Shirley Temple. Some, like all true fans of MST3K, were heckling the living crap out of it. The quieter ones were appreciating the original dialogue, in-between seeking out lightweight munchables.
A boy and a girl in the Land of the Future were refusing to part, despite the fact that it was time for the boy to be born.
“But sir… we’re in love.”
Sara, who had so far been silent in the shadows, sobbed once.
Kurt glanced her way. Her ever-emotive skin was showing blues and greys.
“I’ll look for you,” swore the girl. “I’ll search everywhere.”
“Look for the saddest being on the planet,” said the boy from the boat. “And you will find me.”[1]
And Sara just curled up in on herself and burst into tears.
Kurt managed to escort her out of the room with a minimum of fuss. If word hadn’t already gone around about her deal, then it was certainly going to get about *now*.
The real problem, he thought as he attempted to escort her somewhere quiet, was that once one of her ‘boxes’ came undone, the entire cache of emotions just flooded right on out. This one was obviously feelings of emotional worthlessness, judging by what he could decipher of her tearful babble.
Ah. There was Ororo in the gym. Maybe she could help.
…and there was Herr Toynbee. Recoiling from her as if freshly scorched.
If he were a more suspicious person, he’d have drawn a completely wrong conclusion from that brief picture and go off the deep end.
But a more suspicious person wouldn’t have noticed Toynbee's completely heartfelt look of terror at the sight of Sara in tears. Ororo just ceased to exist for him.
“Trigger?” said Ororo. She’d seen something similar happen, albeit briefly.
“Jawohl,” he gingerly patted the poor girl on her back. “Swap?”
“Sure.” She scooped Sara off of him and left him with Toynbee, who was going from horrified to bloody furious with very few pitstops. “Peace, freund,” he soothed.
“Peace? You swore you’d bloody look after 'er!”
“I can’t prevent what I don’t anticipate,” he said. “There was no warning.”
His fists still flexed. “You don’t get a lot of warnin’s do ya?”
“You never know when her seizures are going to happen…”
Just like that, the anger ran out of him. “…fuck…” Only to be replaced by agitation. “Shit. You think she’s doing this to herself? Wreckin’ herself out of… out of… Some fuckin’ thing…”
“Anxiety?” Kurt prompted. “Worry? Fear?”
“All of the above,” he found a punching bag and whalloped it. “Seven fucking days an’ I’m already goin’ nuts after *one*. I’m gonna be pissin’ myself after *three*…”
Kurt, lost for a place to relax, made himself comfortable against a wall. “You know… Scott never actually forbade you to write letters to each other…” He smirked. “I’m certain he won’t even think about it if you both keep it -ah- civil?”
“Kurt?” said Mort. “I think I’m startin’ to *like* you.”
[1] IMO, this scene’s way better acted in the Shirley Temple version than the crappy 80’s remake. YMMV. The dialogue’s from the best of my recall.
~
December 6.
“She fell down the stairs *AGAIN*?!”
“I was caught in time,” said Sara.
“But I caught her this time,” said Kurt at exactly the same moment.
“Besides, it was a completely different set of stairs.”
“That’s not helping, Fraulein.”
Scott tore at his hair, making a noise of strain from the effort of holding back on a fully-blown tirade. “Just tell me one thing,” he said after he forced himself to relax. “Are you going to be tossing yourself down stairs for the entire *week*?”
“I didn’t *toss* myself,” objected Sara. “I’d never do this sort of thing voluntarily,” her voice fell to a hushed mutter, “…i’m afraid of heights…”
“It’s true,” said Kurt.
“Why does everybody else in this mansion suddenly become a font of information when you’re around?” he wondered at Sara.
“Perhaps I’m like a train wreck,” she suggested. “People can’t miss the spectacle.”
Kurt buried his face in his hands. “You are *not* helping, Fraulein.”
“Is it the same stuff as yesterday?” Scott demanded. “Because I thought we dealt with that.”
“No!” Sara vibrated with offense. “I never do anything the same way twice. This time, I was reading.”
“I thought you could speed-read…”
“I was savouring the material.”
“What the hell was so– no. Never mind. I don’t know and I don’t want to know. Just - for God’s *sake* - *sit* somewhere, okay? No more walking on automatic.”
“I’ll try not to.”
Scott stormed off on other morning business, muttering about damned teenagers and their innate knack for continued chaos.
“My…” said Sara. “You’d think he’d been born at the age of thirty-something.”
Kurt laughed. “It’s easy to forget you were young, once. Especially when you’re worried about someone.”
“Hm… saviour complex meets barn door with a horse over the hill[1]. I’ve never actually witnessed it before…”
Callisto entered, bearing a covered tray. “It turns out we don't really *need* an early warning system in this place. So long as three people are awake to gossip, news gets around quicker than light.”
“Well, there *is* Avery and I… Who else is an incurable insomniac?”
Callisto put the tray down to slap herself on the forehead. “…good lord, she’s actually thinking of implementing it,” she muttered. Louder, she said, “Kid… Mort heard about this morning’s near-disaster and sent this up from the big kitchen. Special delivery.”
They were heart-shaped waffles and, judging by the scent, he'd absorbed her recipe by osmosis.
Kurt was drooling. And whimpering.
“It’s the cinnamon,” said Sara. “Gets them every time.” She allowed herself one selfish forkful. Mmmm… maple syrup, too. “Am I allowed to share?”
“I believe the man said, and I quote, 'tell any vultures 'angin' around that there’s a limited time offer in the kitchens’.”
{Bamf!}
“Darn. I didn’t get to the 'first come, first served’ part…”
“Metabolism from hades,” said Sara. “Any kind of teleporting would just guzzle energy. QED.”
Callisto subtly turned on the ceiling vents in the cosier above-ground kitchen. “How can you still eat after *that* smell?”
“It’s just *sulphur*, dear. Completely harmless. Besides,” another forkful, “maple syrup cannot be denied.”
“Sugar junkie.”
“The worst.”
[1] Sara shorthand. She thinks Scott’s guarding the barn after the horse has been stolen.
~
“What the hell do you *MEAN* she jumped through a window?” Logan demanded. “I left you in charge for five freakin’ minutes…”
“If both of you gentlemen could be so kind as to get out of my *LIGHT*,” menaced Hank, “perhaps I can find and extract all of this *glass*…”
“I *mean* we broke for a little fun, someone said 'Hey Sara, go long’, and before I could turn around to yell at anyone - *crash*… she'd jumped through the freakin’ window.”
“Trying to catch a frisbee,” Hank tisked.
“I think it was a nerf football… Either way, she missed.”
“Didn’t miss the window,” muttered Logan.
“It was a big window,” said Scott. “She couldn’t possibly miss.”
Sara was in no condition to protest. The 'sedative’ Hank had administered to dull the pain had put her into a foggy realm that was half a dream. Right now, she was watching imaginary fish play with her dangling fingers… which were lengthening into some form of frondlike kelp. And since it was either that, suffering her injuries, or being hooked up to a machine that breathed for her; Hank had wisely decided to go with the least problematic solution.
“…th’ monkey took th’ kumquats…” she murmured.
Neither arguing men payed any attention to this, whatsoever.
“I *told* you to look out for her…”
“Avery was demonstrating how he could be a freaking rail gun[1]…”
“*Light*, gentlemen…” growled Hank. “As in, take your argument out of *mine*.”
{Bamf!} “Incoming! Duck and cover, I’ll try to hold him off!” {Bamf!}
All three present[2] had just enough time to say, “What the–?” before Kurt’s agitated message became clear.
The meaning manifested itself in the form of an extremely pissed-off mutant otherwise known as Mortimer Toynbee.
“You fuckin’ yankee *bastard*!” Mort hollered before he impacted with Scott. One sucker-punch, and he was on top of the man, trying to strangle him and lift him by his shirt at the same time. “You were supposed to be lookin’ after her! That was part of the fuckin’ *DEAL*! How could you let this *HAPPEN*?”
“…y’ve gotta be quiet, dear… th’ skitterlings’ll hear you…”
Mort dropped Scott like a bag of offal and tried to insert himself under the frame currently supporting his beloved. “O God… please tell me you’re okay, luv? Please be all right?”
“…no… ’s half left at Alberquerque…” Sara muttered. Her skin was turning interestingly psychedelic colours. “…h'lo? we allowed t’ dance now?”
Mort poked his head above the frame. “The *fuck* did you give 'er?”
Hank continued tweezing shards of glass out of her skin with both hands. “Given miss Adrien’s history with regards to medication, I thought it best to go with something extremely mild. It was two millilitres of acetominophen and codeine in a twenty-percent solution.”
“…wheeeee…” burbled Sara. “…dance, little fishies…”
“The upside is that she’s feeling absolutely no pain.”
“…i like pie…”
[1] Affinity with electronics plus the correct type of wiring plus *NO* sense of restraint equals chaos.
[2] Sara’s not at home right now ;)
~
Ororo found him just as he was managing to pick himself up, and helped him the rest of the way to verticality. “Kurt… What *happened* to you?”
There was some nasty swelling happening on one side. Distorting his features. “Make a note, liebchen… Never. *EVER*. Get between people who are deeply in love… when one of them is hurt.” He gingerly probed the impact site and winced. “Don’t hurt him on my behalf? He wasn’t in his right mind.”
“I heard about Sara versus the window and knew there’d be fireworks, but… did you have to get in his *way*?”
“He had murder in his eyes. What else could I do?” Unstable on his feet, Kurt leaned on her for support. “Ach… I admit it wasn’t one of my *brighter* moments, though.”
“Kurt… there have been brighter moments in the *dark*.”
The scene in the infirmary made an interesting tableaux. Sara was face-down in a massage frame whilst Hank busied himself with removing tiny shards of glass. Underneath the frame, Mort was blatantly breaking the arrangement by attempting to talk to the girl.
Logan was just helping Scott up to his feet, the latter of whom had obviously *also* been run over by a speeding Toad.
“…five nine two six five three five eight nine[1]…” Sara was reciting in a dreamy voice.
“Thanks for your 'help’,” Scott drawled.
“*I* wasn’t gonna get in his way,” said Logan.
“But you’d *heal*.”
“…two three eight four six two six four three three eight three…”
Mort waved his hand in front of Sara’s eyes. “Hey,” he cooed. “Hey, now, luv.”
Ororo hauled Kurt over to a spare bench and went hunting for ice packs. Both he and Scott were going to need them.
“So will you,” said Logan. “I just do it quicker. That doesn’t mean I actually *like* getting injured.”
“…five oh two eight eight four two one one… hello mortimer.”
“Nice of ya to see me,” he smirked.
Kurt was grateful for the ice pack. “Oooohhhhh… oh ja…”
Scott was in less than high spirits. “Ouch. I’m sure I should -ow- lock one of them up, but -eech- I can’t decide which one…”
“I vote 'neither’,” said Logan. “They both have friends an’ it’ll be a revolt.”
“You gotta admit -oooh- that kid needs a padded room.”
“…what are *you* doing with the fishies?”
Mort clasped one of her hands. “Keepin’ you company, of course.”
“'That kid’, as you put it, needs more than just protecting,” said Kurt. “She needs help to heal.”
“Not just physically,” added Ororo. “Though 'physically’ is fast becoming a problem.”
[1] Sara also likes Pi.
~
Mort knew his time with her was fast running out. Any second, now, they’d get over debating about preventative measures and get back on to the issue of who currently didn’t belong where he currently *was*.
Therefore, he savoured every instant. He bought her hand to his mouth and kissed her fingers, absorbing her scent into his mind.
Warm, clean woman with a hint of lilac.
The lilac was an eternal mystery. Sara didn’t use perfume, owing to her spectacular reaction to alcohol. She stayed away from perfumed hygene products as a matter of paranoia. And, owing to the various allergies contained within the mansion, potpourri was out of the question.
Besides, he’d gained covert sniffs and overt sniffs during the weeks when all they had to wash with was water. The lilac was an eternal part of her.
He could get high just sniffing her.
“…beware th’ drangletts…”
Pity conversation wasn’t an option. There was no hint as to whether she’d even remember any of this, afterwards. “I’ll try, luv,” he said. He had no idea what the hell 'drangletts’ *were*, but he’d ask her about them - and the 'skitterlings’ - when she was fully cogniscent. “You do something for me?”
“…okeh…”
“You try an’ remember to look after yourself, okay?”
“…okeh…”
“I don’t want t’ see you hurt.”
“…o mortimer… wish you were real…”
“I’m 'ere for ya,” he soothed, running his fingers gently over the warping patterns in her scales. “For as long as I can stay.”
~
Kurt and Ororo conspired together to drag him out with as much dignity as he could muster… which wasn’t a lot, really. He’d lingered over-long and tried valliantly to stay in physical contact with her for as long as humanly possible.
“…th’ fish stole m’ bicycle…”
“I’ll sort 'im out. I gotta go, luv.”
“…don’ trip on th’ woozles…”
“Okay.” Ororo was tugging gently on his arm. “I’ll… do me best.”
Her fingers slipped from his and almost drifted back into their rest position. “…th’ carousel unicorns escaped…”
“I love you,” he whispered as he lost sight of her. Anxiety spasmed within. The one he felt for was *gone* again. He had to believe, utterly, that she would be waiting for him at the end of the week. He could already feel the old psychoses eating at him. Would they come back? Would they still want him? What could he *do* without someone to guide him along? Where was he, without a living compass-point to steer by?
_Stop that right now, Morty,_ he told himself. _Sara won’t want a wrecked man for her birthday._
Shit.
Her *birthday*.
“I need t’ get her present,” he blurted. “The party’s on in five bleedin’ *days*…”
“Tonight,” Ororo promised.
“We’ll take you wherever you need to go,” added Kurt.
*
Scott volunteered to haul Sara back to her room and be her spotter until she came down. At least, given their similar heights, she was easy to guide-carry along.
“…g'nyeaurgh…”
Correction. *Relatively* easy to guide-carry along. He knew from her babblings that she was seeing things… and now that she was walking, that meant flinching in random directions in moments of least convenience.
“…neeeee!”
And it was only just *starting* to get homicidally annoying[1].
“…waugh…”
_Oh for fuck’s *sake*…_ “*What*?” he demanded.
“…crawling all over,” she muttered. “…infested.”
_I need a teep._
A youthful 'voice’ entered his head, alongside the image of a purple butterfly. _Can I help?_
_I need to see what Sara’s seeing. She’s not exactly… communicative, right now,_ he 'told’ Betsy[2].
A pause. _You sure you want to do that?_ she 'said’. _Sara’s sorta between dreams and waking… make that 'nightmares and waking’._
_I just need to see what to avoid so she doesn’t keep yanking away from me._ He had two flights of stairs to combat and by now, the entire school knew what *that* meant. So much so that voluntary bodyguards were turning up whenever she went *near* a flight of stairs, for fear that she’d take a small flight off of them. Again.
_All righty, then. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Contact in five… four… three…_
He never 'heard’ the rest of the countdown. He was too fixated on the *Things* that were fading into his field of vision.
And he thought *he* was fucked up in the head.
Take one creative genius. Add an active imagination. Filter through the standard childhood fear of the dark and stir with some better-known literary classics. The end result was a positive phantasm of disturbing creatures.
All. *Over*. The freaking. Hallway.
Betsy had tried to help by supplying the images in living colour. Scott was so used to seeing shades of red that - in theory - the real-colour nightmares shouldn’t have seemed real.
Instead, it somehow made them more terrifying.
_See what I mean?_ 'said’ Betsy. _This is mondo psycho._
Scott, upon seeing a purple weasel-like creature 'swim’ in and out of reality, revealing itself to be pythonesque in length, had to agree. There were blobbish creatures - with black-and-white markings, elephantine trunks, and udders - oozing across the corridor through doors that weren’t there. There were thousands upon thousands of black scuttling things that somehow gave off the vibe that they were deadly poisonous. There were things that weren’t entirely *there*… possessing octopoid, yet dripping tentacles dangling below what he could only assume were their eyes, and bodies that stretched upwards into nothingness.
Betsy helpfully supplied information. The purple weasel-pythons were 'woozles’, the blobbish things were 'hefferlumps’, the insectoid poison-critters were 'skitterlings’ and the creepy half-there nightmares drifting on the air currents were 'drangletts’. And by the way, *DO NOT*, under any circumstances, look into any shadows.
Scott peeked once - and like the ancient mariner; walked on, and no more turned his head[3].
He wasn’t going to sleep easily, tonight. That was certain.
And yet he had to pilot Sara through this to a safe haven and keep her out of real danger while she reacted to phantoms.
_They’re not really real,_ he reminded himself. _Just focus on keeping Sara away from them and away from danger and we’ll both be fine… Yeah, Scooter. Keep fooling yourself. It has to be done, so go do it._
He broke out in a cold sweat before he got to the first staircase.
[1] So annoying that you start contemplating murder.
[2] Yes, Betsy Braddock. AKA Psylocke. I made her movie version teenaged ;)
[3] All I know by heart of the _Ryme of the Ancient Mariner_ is as follows, “Like one who on a lonesome road doth walk in fear and dread, having once turned round, walks on, and no more turns his head… because he knows a frightful fiend doth close behind him tread.” I probably got the punctuation wrong, but I love love *love* that quote.
~