Fanfic Time: Flotsam part 21
Continued from yesterday:
December 7.
It was going to be a very, *very* long day. He could tell.
It had already been a long night, owing to the theme song karaoke stomp party one of the kids had decided to throw directly above his room. Just how many people could stand to sing _Star Blazers_ in a row anyhow? He’d had to get up ten times to tell them to keep it down to a dull roar.
Scott lurched into a sitting position, feeling like Dead Fred looked[1]. At least his morning routine allowed him to fumble through his first minutes with his eyes shut. He took a drink from his bedside glass, ridding his mouth of the dry stuff that always seemed to accumulate overnight. Next, shower, shave, and locate some clean clothes.
Thank God for the invention of ensuites.
Five steps *that* way from the corner of his bed, there’s the door. Toilet *there*. Hah. Someone had glued the seat to the lid. _Funny, people. *Verrrrry* funny…_ The kids always seemed to forget that he was used to being blind. And managing certain things with little other guidance than sound and feel[2]. Later on in the morning, he’d quietly put things back to normal with the help of some solvent.
He felt his way into the shower and revelled in bodywash and hot water. It always felt good to be *clean*.
And the kids had put something sticky in his shampoo.
Lovely.
He got most of it out, but the stuff thinned and thinned but could not go completely away in the time he allotted himself for the shower.
He had a date to keep.
Swearing under his breath, Scott found a towel and buffed himself into dryness, seeking the drawer where he put his next day’s clothes.
_Bonus points, kiddies, for abducting my gear. Too bad for you I only do that for expediency._
The kids got *extra* bonus points for completely emptying his closets and drawers of everything but one clothing option.
Lederhosen.
The complete traditional get-up. Even the funny little hat, which he decided to forgo.
He found his glasses by an earpiece and put them on.
Something felt *wrong*.
He felt the frames. Awkward projections everywhere. They wouldn’t go to *that* extreme, surely…
He opened his eyes for a fraction of a second. No sound of deadly force. No cacaphony of destruction.
Scott breathed out. They’d just changed the frames.
He opened his eyes and checked the mirror.
_Oh. My. Fucking. God…_
His skin looked different. Darker.
They’d either put dye in the body wash or the showerhead. Or both, since the colour was more-or-less even. His hair spiked in all directions, and refused to obey the comb. Apparently, exposure to cooler, dryer air caused the stuff to set like glue. But the sweet smell?
He risked a taste.
Honey.
They couldn’t resist the classics, it seemed.
The glasses didn’t go with the lederhosen. They wouldn’t have gone with anything, except perhaps a drag queen on a bender. The rhinestones were a cute touch. And the exaggerated sort-of-eyelashy projections that made it just look - euw.
Now he remembered why he thought ‘drag queen’… there was some Australian comedian that the History channel was poring through his life, practically non-stop. They guy’s drag act featured glasses like these. He’d never thought it was particularly funny.
He didn’t think it was all that hillarious, now.
But - before he could figure out how to get rid of this mess, he had one thing to do.
*
{knock knock knock}
“Mrrrfff…” Ororo groaned.
“…funf weitere Minuten…”
She yawned, throwing on a shift and extracting herself from Kurt's grip[3]. Which took some serious untangling.
“Liebe?”
“I got it.” She lurched towards the door.
{knock knock knock}
“Yeah yeah yeah. I’m gettin’ there.” Her jaw cracked with the power of her last yawn, which also forced her to close her eyes. She winced them shut. “This had *better* be good,” she said. “Do you know what *time* it is?”
“I won’t be long,” said Scott. “First things first. What colour am I?”
Ororo opened her eyes to boggle at the man. Then burst out into hysterics.
It took him half an hour to find out he was berry-purple.
[1] Remember the phrase, “You look how I feel”? This is somewhat of a reversal.
[2] I’m not asking, but there *has* to be a way.
[3] So I like Kuroro Movieverse shipperdom. Deal.
~
_Darling Mort,_ the note read. _First, I simply must apologise for taking my time in penning this reply. As you can understand, my schedule has been unexpectedly upset. At least this time, instead of my usual meeting with the stairs, it was an unforseen meeting with a window._
_Hank insisted on giving me a painkiller. I was out of the loop for several hours. Hallucinating all sorts of bizarre and interesting things._
_I saw you in there, too. I guess the brain summons what it desires most in times of stress or strain._
Mort stopped reading. “I *was* there, luv,” he whispered. But then, he knew what it was like to doubt reality.
He did a literary double-take on the last few words he’d read. The brain summons what it desires most.
What it desires most…
She wanted him with her. Missed him. Desired him.
That phrase alone would keep him warm for hours.
_And just in case you were there,_ Sara continued, _thanks for trying to talk to me. Even though I couldn’t understand a blessed thing you said. It all came into my ears like the muted trumpet thing they did for the teachers in those old _Charlie Brown_ cartoons._
_My trip to Pepperland[1] aside for the moment, I hope that this letter finds you in less pain than I’m enduring. It simply won’t do to have us both suffering for this chance. No hurling yourself into objects solid, breakable or other. That includes sharp objects and hot things. That’s an order._
“Yes, Ma'am,” he breathed.
_I do want to be able to dance with you during my birthday party without causing excess discomfort to either of us; so please, please take good care of yourself._
_And speaking of birthdays, I sent a marvellously ascerbic and catty un-invitation to my alleged 'dear darling’ mother. Kept a copy for you to laugh at when we finally meet for better times._
_The rest of the student body have apparently taken up arms against our particular misfortune… or rather, the gentleman chiefly responsible. This morning’s assault apparently involved purple dye, lederhosen, honey and drag-queen supreme frames for the necessary spectacles. Or is that 'spectacle’? I have seen the purple, since the dye tends to linger, but alas, he’d found himself some proper clothes and eyewear since he was 'hit’._
_I’ve requested that, in the event of further pranking, they take photographs so that others may enjoy the full effect. I’ve also informed them that a public webpage on the subject is going entirely too far._
_Write soon, beloved. Knowing that there is *one* line of communication open to us is enough to get me through the day._
_Missing you from here, Sara Louise._
Mort sighed, kissed the note, and added it to his little stash of similar missives in his room. Re-reading her rambling letters gave him solace in the lonely nights. He smirked at the thought of an 'un-invitation’ and could only wonder at the sort of fallout that such an item would produce.
*
Sam heard the scream clear across the house. And considering the size of the house, that was either an impressive feat or a truly phenomenal scream. He did not, as he used to do, run. There was a subtle difference between Jaquelline’s I’ve-just-hurt-myself scream and her I’m-outraged scream. Long familiarity with the latter over the past few weeks had made him almost immune to her histrionics. Almost. He still loved her so badly that it hurt to see her like this.
He’d encouraged her to 'take a holiday’ from her side of the family. Otherwise known collectively to his mind as the Harpie-vultures. Not only did they harangue and assault one, they also plucked at one's tender portions, tearing one up inside and out.
So far, it had helped some of the core of Jaquelline to emerge, but old habits died hard.
Such as the need to blame someone else.
Jaquelline was red-faced and fuming when he reached her. “That *GIRL*! That *girl* of yours… she– she– *ARGH*! Just *read* what she had to say!”
Sam picked up the crumpled stationary and schooled himself to keep his face blank.
_Mommy Dearest,_ Sara had written. _Just a little note to let you know I’m more than adequately prepared for your absence from my seventeenth birthday party on the 12th of this month. I understand that you’ll be entirely too busy with your other social concerns to attend._
Sam bit his lip. Jaquelline’s 'social concerns’ had vanished like fog the instant the news of her abuse of Sara had got out. She was alone and uncomforted by the people she’d thought of as her friends. All she had left was wherever Sam took her as part of her continuing therapy.
_I’m also well aware of your aversion to mutant-kind, and thought it best to exclude you from the guest list, since many attendees will be mutants - including yours truly. Alas, I have yet to achieve mastery of my own genes, so a mutant I must remain._
_Since it is so obviously against ettiquite and social standing to be Seen with a mutant, I shall spare you the awkwardness of the situation, and allow you your complete and utter freedom as to what to do with your time on that date._
Sara had signed it with a, _With love from your daughter._
Sam read it over and winced.
“Exactly. She’s doing this to me on *purpose*!”
“Yes,” he agreed. “This is the first thing Sara’s done to you deliberately.”
“First?” Jaquelline got herself ready for another tirade. “Do you have any *idea* how much she’s *done* while your back was turned to me?”
“Yes. You’ve told me some innumerable times. And I’ve told you that when Sara decides to inflict herself on someone - you’ll *know* about it. This–” he gestured with the paper, “–is merely an opening shot.”
“This all *her* fault…”
“Is it? *You* decided to judge her by your family’s standards, Jaquelline. Is it any wonder that that’s the first thing she’d throw in your face? You put her in a school that was ill-suited for her aptitude–”
“She didn’t complain at the time.”
“Because she loved you and wanted you to be happy,” said Sam. “I think the latter half of that prior statement is being forgotten as we speak, Jaquelline. Do you really want the first half to go the same way?”
“Stop taking her *side*!”
“I’m on *my* side,” argued Sam. “I always have been. All I ever wanted was for the both of you to get along and be *happy*. You’re the one who believes love is a once-to-one-person thing. You’re the one who can't see beyond the surface of things… how it all *looks* to the outside. You’re the one who’s seen everything else and every*one* else except *yourself*.” He took a deep breath. Calm. He had to maintain calm. Even though he was aching inside. “You used to be so *expansive*. What made you fall in on yourself like this?”
Jaquelline put her ever-present glass down, contemplating it. It and the transitory alcohol within had been her constant waking companion since Sara had learned how to open her cot and go exploring. “I… my options were - limited.”
That was a true-Jaqui moment. The trembling echo of the real *her*… peeking out of its cancerous shell after far, far too long.
“Your mother’s options *for* you, darling.”
She pushed the glass away. “Yes.” She blinked. “What else am I supposed to do?”
He smiled comfortingly. “Let’s start with a simple question, then. What do *you* want?”
Jaquelline thought about that, stripping off her bracelets and jewels in the process. “I want,” she finally announced, “to tell that old hag of a mother of mine to go *stuff* it.”
Sam could have cheered.
“Fuck society,” She said, hurling her glass at the sink, where it and the ice shattered and scattered. “Fuck all of the shallow, pretentious *snobs* who couldn’t stand to be near someone who was caught out. I'm going to be *ME*!”
The real Jaquelline was slightly smaller than her shell, having been constrained for so long. But she would grow.
Sam had always liked helping her grow.
[1] I’m fairly sure someone had an objection to _Yellow Submarine_ based solely on its imagery, and thus connected it to drugs.
~