Fanfic Time: Flotsam part 24

Continued from yesterday:

  Mort was lingering. He knew it, and he was certain that everyone else did, too. Hank gave him an excuse with the analysis of his skin secretions, and the collecting of a sizeable sample to see if they could reproduce it for the good of Science… and a completely unnecessary detour through an indicator of exactly how much time Hank had on his hands.

  The good doctor had noticed, when Sara was bought in late last night, that her prior injuries from her encounter with glass had healed somewhat faster than he would have expected. This, in turn, lead to him setting up a time-lapse camera to monitor her progress through the night.

  There was already five minutes of footage.

  Scooter-boy was in one place long enough to be a high-speed, yet recognisable blur by Sara’s side.

  He’d never left her alone for a minute.

  As for the burns… sped up, he could see the area of her injury reduce like melting ice. There was still too much, in his opinion, but if he’d seen her when the wounds were *new*… Mort would have gone to fucking pieces.

  The last thing they’d have needed at that time - what with the seizures and all - was a hysterical boyfriend in the room.

~

  Sara’s eyes kept wanting to shut, even though her mind was awake. This always seemed to happen when medication was involved. Bits of her kept passing out[1], leaving the others to cope on their own.

  “Just one more spoonful,” coaxed Mr Summers.

  “At least I’m not asleep,” she said. It was when she correctly intercepted the broth that she began to wonder how the heck she did it. Usually, if she attempted that sort of thing, there’d be a mess of spilled soup all over the place. “…how on Earth did I just do that?" she wondered aloud.

  "Maybe you’re used to it,” offered Mr Summers.

  “Maybe.” Sara eased into meditative mode, allowing her senses to expand. Mr Summers shifted on his chair, making himself comfortable. Hank and Mort were discussing this or that in the rambling fashion caused by one participant desperate to hang around.

  _Naughty Mortimer, dancing on the edge of the deal. Don’t slip too close to the edge, now._ Oddly enough, she felt warmer for his presence in the room, even though the temperature had been obsessively adjusted with her peculiar adaptations in mind. Maybe it wasn’t that odd at all, given her feelings for the man.

  Did she really love him? Or was it something like Nightingale Syndrome… where the carer and caree fell in love through extended contact? Was that even a false love? Relationships formed through such familiarity could last a literal lifetime. Was she just *used* to him? Could she seriously expect anything better?

  But then… there was something deeply endearing about him. Underneath the tough, brash talk and the obvious experience at dealing with a cruel world, there was a soft and tender underside that wanted to care and be cared for in return. Craved it, almost. Like something held apart from him until the want of it nearly became an addiction.

  Sara smiled at the memory of catching Mort surrupticiously sniffing some garment she’d recently worn. That darling look of covert ecstasy as he just stood there and *inhaled*, the dreamy expression he got as he savoured that one breath… and the slightly guilty way he put the garment back as he had found it.

  Perhaps he, too, thought he didn’t deserve love.

  That thought made her crave for time to move faster, just so she could hold him close and protect him from thoughts like that and never, *never* let go.

  Just having one of them messed up like that was bad enough.

  How could they heal each other if they both suffered the same wounds?

  “Deep thoughts?” said Mr Summers.

  “Deep and troubling,” she said. “Love defies equations… and that unknown factor is therefore alarmingly hard to quantify. You know it, at least. Were there ever times you were - afraid? Any times you doubted what you felt was real?”

  She could sense-feel Mr Summers beside her, and somehow knew he was looking at Mort as he tried to stay but knew he should go. She could almost *sense* the internal debate.

  “In the very beginning… yes,” he said. “But it gets to the point where you just can’t picture your life without them and then… it's just the way it is.”

  Sara sighed. “And we haven’t even had a first date,” she mused. “Just tumbling together through one necessity after another… would we even last in a normal relationship?”

  Mr Summers shrugged - how could she know? Yet she did. “One way to find out, I guess.”

  “Tomorrow?” she pleaded.

  “We had a deal. He proves he can be good for a week, and *then* you guys get to try normalcy for a while.” His next words fell perilously short of a joke. “Assuming you don’t put yourself in a coma before then. Or worse.”

  Even he cared. In his militaristic way. Everyone cared so much. So *openly*. And without the undercurrent of pretence that meant incoming torture of one form or another at a later date. “I’ll try to be g–” oh fudge. Another box was peeling apart. All her focus intensified inwards. Steady the breathing. Achieve centre. Be always aware that that coming loose is not the emotion of *now*. Remember the mantra. “Ashair elam ithenne onu… ashair elam ithenne onu…” And above all else… let that inside that wants to be loose slide out with the breath. Release into the air… and breathe in freedom.

 [1] Tip o’ the hat to the late Douglas Adams ^_^

~

  Hank ceased talking the instant he realised he’d lost his audience. It was hard to miss, given that Mort’s anguished expression hardly matched a mini-lecture on the fascinating co-ordination of physical adaptions.

  He was fixated on someone else. On four whispered and repeating words.

  “…ashair elam ithenne onu…”

  It had taken Charles quite a while to find the mantra that had no meaning for her. Sara’s knack for languages - not to mention her thirst for them - made it nigh on impossible to find four words that perplexed her. So he’d made them up.

  Focussing on the words, concentrating on finding meaning where there was none, distracted Sara enough while her ‘boxed’ emotions and physical reactions eased slowly out of her semi-conscious mind at a safer rate.

  Watching her doing this was disturbing, since the violent swings of her fits trickled out in clearly-interpretable movements. Tics co-ordinated - when she was free to move - into a ballet that spoke of abuse. Restrained as she was, it was just a case of watching the muscles twitch, her face move in horrid extremes of expression, and her emotive skin ripple and wash over with colours that betrayed feelings long past.

  In his more academic moments, he seriously considered writing a paper about her particular method of emotive and reactive repression, and the unnerving complications that arose as a result. The work would have to include the collaboration of the Professor and most likely Sara as well. The former for his far more impressive psychology degrees and the latter for actually being there and experiencing it.

  But then, did Sara really need people reading about her pain and analysing it for generations?

  A movement caught his eye and bought his attention back to Mort, hovering on the edge of an invisible barrier and trying not to distract anyone.

  Moisture seeped into patches on his shirt.

  _Interesting sympathetic reaction,_ he mused. Then his doctor's training took over. “Perhaps it would be better if you sought some other occupation for the meantime,” he said, guiding the man towards the door. "Sara’s in the best of care. Rest assured she’ll be up and about in no time.“

  One last, lingering look. "When she goes out? Make sure she has a fuckin’ bodyguard?”

  “Indubitably, dear fellow. We dare not risk any other action, considering the most recent developments.”

~

  “…onu…” A shuddering sigh. “One would think,” said Sara, “that I had *dealt* with most of these…”

  “Relieving the pressure’s slower than an out-and-out breakdown,” said Scott.

  “Not to mention more annoying,” griped Sara. “There’s so *many*… it could take forever to bust them all out. Especially like this. A seizure’s over in a few minutes–”

  “And it could injure you. Not to mention the fact that a severe enough seizure could trigger a complete emotional breakdown… which has its own inherent risks.” He patted her uninjured hand. “Think of it like… eating fibre. You gotta do it, but the damn stuff just plain sucks.”

  She giggled, showing greener colours. Except where the Toad - *Toynbee* - had touched his slime to her skin. There, it remained a sickly yellow, spotted with violent reds. At least… according to Hank. Every colour *he* saw was through a ruby filter.

  Hank checked the readouts. “The good news is that there’s a minimal risk of aftershock seizures.”

  “And the bad news?”

  “That means we have to move you so your skin doesn’t crack - while you’re conscious.”

  Sara’s eyes opened for that, trepidation clear in their dark depths. "I take it I made disturbing noises?“

  "More than a few,” said Scott. “It’s almost heartbreaking.”

  She stared right into him. “*You* don’t have to be here and endure it…”

  “It’s my fault you got hurt. I deserve it.”

  “Is that the result of a court of inquiry?” she said as Hank unbuckled her.

  “Do you defend anyone who crosses your path?”

  “Just those without a defender,” she smirked. Then hissed slightly as she moved by herself for the first time in almost eight hours.

~

  It was later. Pain had happened, and he’d had to watch it happen to the sufferer for the sake of their long-term wellbeing. That didn’t make it any easier to face.

  She was sleeping, now. Genuine sleep, which apparently couldn’t be matched by anaesthesia. And that gave him at least three hours to get clean and changed.

  Scott opened his door and sighed.

  His room had been turned upside-down. Literally.

  He had to say this for the kids. They scored high on enginuity.

  At least this time they’d left his clothes and his hygene products alone. They just made getting to some of them… difficult.

  _Professor,_ he 'called’ as he adjusted the last details of his fresh clothes. _We’re going to have to have a school-wide meeting._

  _So I 'see’,_ jibed the telepath.

  _Actually, this lot is second on the agenda. First is an official inquiry into last night’s accident… and arranging a schedule of bodyguards._ Sara had been right on that count. He was too eager to judge and condemn himself with little to no input from anyone else. And since the students had declared him target of the week *anyway*… why not let them have a target that truly deserved it?

*

  Mort revelled in the hot water and soap substitute. To think, once upon a time, he’d have just festered in his be-slimed clothing until someone made him bleed on it, or his 'master’ Magneto ordered him to do something about his odour. The old fart didn’t care about Mort's sensitivity to soap, nor his ability - or handicap - of being able to detect every impurity in the water just by soaking in it… and subsequently being ill.

  Sara had cared enough to find an ultra-non-allergenic soap substitute for him, and apologised about the water, since there was little she could actually do about that.

  But Xavier’s… was prepared. It was highly plausible for a mutant to be sensitive to pollutants, so he laid in space-age plumbing that kept the water as pure as possible.

  Mort, who hadn’t been bothered as a matter of self-defence, could almost adore every instant of this luxury. Being clean without being ill as a result? Paradise.

  Were it not for Sara’s intervention, he would have been supremely thankful for just that. She somehow helped him recognise as a right what had previously been treasured as a luxury, and brooked no going back.

  She was pleased whenever he took pride in himself, boosting him up to achieve the next goal.

  It was after he dressed - clean clothing every day, another once-upon-a-time luxury - that Xavier’s voice entered his head. School-wide meeting, *there*, to discuss what must be done and who was to blame for last night’s accident.

  Mort resolved to sit on his hands and keep his mouth shut. He knew what he *felt* about the entire ordeal… it’s just that his brand of vengeance wouldn’t sit well with Sara.

  She’d give that sodding one-eyed git a chance just because he didn't have one.

  And that’s why Mort loved her.

~

  Mort found himself an unobtrusive corner up at the back of the lecture hall to lurk in, and almost instantly found himself surrounded by friends. Rogue. Kurt. Even Ororo and Rogue’s tag-along boyfriend, Bobby.

  “You think Scooter’s going to surrender?”

  “Nah. Seen what this is about,” said Mort. “God knows why he decided to open the floor on blamin’ 'imself, though.”

  “Did Sara do something *else* to herself?” wondered Ororo. “Already?”

  “Don’t be bloody daft,” said Mort. There may have been forgiveness for the attempted murder on both sides, but verbally assaulting Sara when she wasn’t around to defend herself was something of a sore point for him. Then, because Sara demanded brutal honesty about herself, he added, "She hasn’t had the time.“

  For anyone else, it would have been funny, but those seated closest to him knew the truth.

  Sara was accident prone through having her mind occupied by personal business.

  Translated - it was *Mort’s* fault.

  For hanging around when he should have left. For wanting to be as close as he could to her. For wanting to be closer. For *worrying* her to the point of distraction.

  If he was gone, completely, then he would have been out of sight and out of mind for her. She could forget him… get on with the life she truly deserved.

  Who was he fooling? Sara couldn’t forget. She’d find him or kill herself through some form of accident and he’d never have the chance to say goodbye.

  He hoped to deaf heaven that he’d saved her by demanding she was constantly watched over.

  The mere thought of not being there to help her in her hours of need - *hurt*.

  Scooter-boy stepped up in front of the gathered students - those who didn’t have somewhere to go for the holidays. "Last night,” he began, "there was an accident…“

  Mort listened again to the essential details, made himself watch the footage they had of Sara setting herself on fire.

  Obvious lack of 'higher functions’ through lowered core temperature. In essence, Sara wasn’t at home to recognise the danger she was in.

  He was worse, true, but at least he was familliar with the danger signs, and could extract himself from trouble. Mostly. The instinct to find a 'safe’ person needed some fine-tuning, but he was *almost* there.

  He could teach her… *if*…

  _Three an a half days, Morty. We just gotta wait three and a half days. Then we’ll see her again._ He sighed. Thinking of himself as plural was a danger sign of stress. He did things to his own body out of stress that were a bitch to heal. Bleeding ulcers were the lightest symptom. As were distraction accidents, like his thumb.

  Once, locked in the little dark room for too long, he’d ground his teeth to bleeding stumps and broken every bone in his arms from the elbow down. He’d spent two weeks after that calling the old fart 'master daddy’ and variations thereof out of the sheer gratitude of basic medical care until he regenerated.

  Growing new teeth was worse than a bitch.

  Scooter cleared his throat. "I am responsible for her initial condition. In an effort to… cheer up a bad mood–”

  _My fault. She was depressed 'cause she misses me._

  “–I instigated an ice-cream duel. I did notice her shivering and went to grab her coat from the art room. And I turned the heat in there back down to 'standby’. If I’d left the thermostat alone, Sara could have thawed in safety. If I’d gone for another coat…”

  Rogue held up her hand. “Uhm. If you’d taken too long lookin’ fo’ a coat, Sara’d wandered off on you anyway.”

  Point. He and Callisto shared minder-stories from back in the camp. Callisto had the more lurid ones, owing to her necessarily having to round the *both* of them into the relative warmth of indoors when they weren’t at all 'home’.

  Mort knew too well Sara’s almost insanely suicidal attitudes in the cold, lurching towards the 'shinies’ on the razor wire, for instance. He’d have to bug the living piss out of Scooter just to teach her essential cold-survival. Love her dearly though he did, he couldn’t keep her safe forever. There would be times when they’d have to be apart.

  Hopefully by choice.

~