Fanfic time: Misfits part 27

Continued from yesterday:

  There was a clearly delineated border between Sara’s space and Jean’s, even before the piles of Sara’s things had completely been moved in. That line was both clearly visible and sacrosanct to Sara. Even in the depths of yet *another* mood swing, she stayed on her side of the invisible line. 

  Todd held her close and brushed her hair, adding the occasional kiss to reassure her that at least *one* person valued her as a human being and would not easily leave. In fact, the only thing that distracted her from her crying jag was that he tucked her hair behind her ears. 

  On the third such tuck, and her subsequent dragging of her brown locks back over them, she protested. “Don’t. Please. They’re perpendicular." 

  "Ain’t,” he protested. Todd captured a hand and re-tucked some hair behind the closest ear. “I love all of yo’. Even your beautiful,” he kissed her earlobe, “parallel,” another kiss, high up on the cartilage, “ears.” A third kiss, on the little bump of flesh guarding the aural canal, near to her cheekbone. 

  And at that precise moment, just as she was beginning to bend to his ministrations, Logan leaned in. “No makin’ out in the bedrooms. Both of ya." 

  "Hey. Yo. I might be scum, but I ain’t no asshole,” Todd shot back. 

  Sara scrubbed her hair back into place and blushed furiously. “I suppose I’d better get on with these shelves,” she murmured, sorting out pieces from the box. 

  “Lemme help?” asked Todd. “I’m pretty okay with a hex key." 

  Darn it, now everything sounded sordid. Sara blushed furiously, but gave him a pile of parts that would eventually turn into a bookcase. She constructed a labyrinth of sorts, guarding her bed - made up and resolutely bland, the only provided furniture besides the dresser and a study desk - and emphasising the line. Sealing her off from the view of Jean "I’m perfect” Grey and any lingering wrath. 

  People like Jean had always abhorred people like Sara. Therefore, Sara reasoned, the best thing to do was to act like they were in seperate, if adjoining, rooms. 

  Maybe some kind of curtain would aid in that, later. If she needed it. 

  For all she knew, Jean Grey might actually be a fantastic person. And tonight, she would have a perfect opportunity to get to know her. 

  _Think of it,_ Sara told herself, _as your first sleepover. Only with more accessories._ 

  Chuckie, still in his hamster ball, was roving around the room and sniffing at things. 

  “Like, hi,” a perky freshman Sara vaguely recalled poked her head in. “You must be the girl Jean’s like, totally freaking over. Need a hand?" 

  _Chaperone,_ thought Sara at the exact same time that Todd said, "Logan send you here as a chaperone?" 

  The girl rolled her eyes. "Shyeah. Kinda. But he also kinda gave me the idea that you’d like, like to be set up before dinnertime? And he’s like, totally nervy about having one of the Brotherhood over." 

  "Todd’s here at my invitation,” Sara never stopped working on her shelving. “And under a flag of truce. Besides, I’m not in the habit of abandoning friends because of anyone else’s disproval." 

  "I’m Kitty,” Kitty parked herself near some shelving and began to attach bits to other bits. “Are you and the *Toad* like, going out?" 

  Sara pulled back her hood. "Not unless Haloween’s come early." 

  "Omi*gawd*… You’re *Essel*!" 

  "Sara Louise Adrien, please. Adrian Essel is a fabrication of narrow minds and cloth ears." 

  "Y'know, the grape vine says you totally–" 

  "I know,” Sara interupted. “Does anyone bother to check the possible veracity of any of those rumours? Most of the ones *I’ve* heard are anatomically impossible… even if I *was* a male." 

  A moment of supreme confusion. "So you’re *really*…” she trailed off, gesturing vaguely at about boob level, trying to come up with a term. 

  “Menstruating,” suggested Sara. “Yes." 

  "Euw!" 

  "It’s only our androcentric society that makes it an unpleasant thing,” said Sara. “In gynocentric cultures, it’s a rite of passage. A confirmation of adulthood." 

  "Euw…” Kitty shuddered. “*So* not my thing. Do you like, need this many shelves?" 

  "Wait until you see my assembled collection. Books, media, hamster, luckpieces, PC guardians… and some few trophies." 

  "You *won* stuff?" 

  "Eons ago, it seems. Ancient history, now.” Sara righted a bookcase and placed in the last few pieces. Almost done building. Almost time to stock the shelves, as it were. At least she didn’t have to hide anything, here. 

  She hoped.

~

  Kurt watched. He was good at it. There was a steady flow of people, one per quarter-hour on average, from Jean’s pity party in the common room to the congregation upstairs. In what used to be Jean’s sanctuary. He was never rude enough to say it, but he’d had the lingering suspicion that she used her room as a kind of extra shield. Something to rely on and retreat into when her head hurt or the steady susurration of minds at work got to be too much. 

  Curiosity compelled him upstairs. After all, he knew what Jean moaning about something or other looked like, by now. Only Scott, fiercely loyal and in love to the point of stupidity, actually stayed. 

  There was music. Something in the tone of it made him think of vinyl. Guitars and banjos. A hymn of sorts. 

  “You’ve got to - prime the pump, you must have faith and believe. You’ve got to - give a lot of yourself before you’re worthy to receive. Drink all the water you can hold, wash your face, cool your feet. But leave a bottleful for others, thank you kindly, Desert Pete." 

  And then Bobby’s voice. "How do you skip tracks?" 

  ”*You* don’t,“ said Sara. "It’s very technical and requires a delicate touch. So put up with songs you dislike, if you please." 

  Only Sara could be that polite while telling someone off. 

  "Is there a fast forward?” Bobby was still clueless about vinyl. 

  Kurt decided to intercede. “It’s from before fast forward was invented. Leave the record alone, ja?" 

  "How in hell do *you* know about it?” Bobby enquired. 

  “Hello? I’m from an isolated whitebread mountain town that *just* got connected to the internet. Of *course* I know about it.” People were swarming, placing books on Sara’s shelves and rearranging the articles of interest, which included the hamster tubing. The hamster in question was barely visible as a set of whiskers inside a miniature kennel. Kurt decided not to bother the poor creature. 

  “D'ye think Jean’ll mind if we hang these in ‘er closet?” Rahne gestured with three long garment bags. 

  “Of course she’d mind,” said Rogue. “Just hang 'em on the pole over the dresser. ’S what it’s there for." 

  Todd, Kurt noticed, rarely left a five-pace circle around Sara. Well. If *he* was in - essentially - enemy territory with a girl he really liked, he’d stick close, too. 

  The record finished with a minimum of fuss from Bobby, who usurped Sara’s computer and queued up every MP3 he could find. He found out that Sara’s musical tastes were both ecclectic and strange. 

  The first song that played was by ELO, which pretty much said it all. The next one, by They Might Be Giants, filled in any blanks for the slow learners. By Paul McCartney’s _Off The Ground_, certain people who knew about Kurt’s own Beatlemania were rolling their eyes and groaning under their breath. 

  Kurt just grooved along and joined the 'lala la lalala’s and said nothing. 

  Several of Sara’s books were in a fragile state, owing to multiple re-readings. Kurt treated these with the care that a well-loved book deserves and took note of titles he knew. _The Neverending Story_, _The Princess Bride_ and the entire Vorkosigan and Discworld series. 

  Sara was in good company.

~

  Hank had come up with a skin potion to soothe his itches and, as an extra added bonus, it acted like soap without making him ill. And, since Sara had successfully set up all her things, he had less and less real reason to hang around. 

  Sara sensed this, even though he hadn’t said anything. 

  Maybe it was Logan, hovering around with Scooterboy, making throat clearing noises and obviously glaring from Todd to the door. 

  Their conversation limped along. Are you going to be okay tomorrow? Yes. Do you need anything? No. And, finally, Guess I’d better call Lance. 

  "Kitty beat you to it,” Scott muttered into his hand. 

  Sara ignored him. “Don’t skip school on my account, darling. That miracle potion of Dr McCoy’s should help slough off any dead skin." 

  "If *Pie* doesn’t steal it." 

  "Tell him it’ll turn his skin green." 

  He laughed, in spite of the dying-date mood. "Yo, that might actually *work*… yo’ cool at stuff like that." 

  "It’s just elementary psychology, I–" 

  "Aaaaah?" 

  She blushed. "Thank you." 

  Lance’s jeep pulled up outside the glass doors and, because Lance was the impatient sort who liked his little ducks where he knew they were safe, he started leaning on the horn. 

  "Moovit, Toad!" 

  "Patience is a virtue,” Sara called. “I– I’ll miss you." 

  "Miss you too.” Now they held both hands, staring into each other’s eyes. “I’ll try to swing by, y'know. After." 

  "I’ll anticipate every moment." 

  {Beeeep BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!} "Goddamn it! Hurry the fuck up!" 

  Sara sighed. "No sympathy in him." 

  "Jealous as,” Todd soothed. “They don’ let him make time wit’ *his* girlfriend." 

  "Then we’d best make the best of our overtime,” she murmured, leaning in. Todd leaned up into the kiss, savouring the taste of her. The soft warmth of her lips. Her scent. The fact that she was kissing him *back*. The tactile thrill of her scales. The feathery tickle of her lovely hair… 

  “Ah, Mr Tolensky." 

  They broke to boggle at the Professor. 

  "Gooseberries[1] to the left of us… Gooseberries to the right of us…” muttered Sara. 

  _Hello? I was kissing my girl goodbye, here…_ Todd tried not to visibly fume. “Yo. 'Sup?" 

  "Have you thought of obtaining an afternoon job?” said the Professor. _I know,_ he 'said’ inside Todd’s head, _but Mr Alvers was entertaining visions of prybars._ 

  _He can fuck himself,_ Todd 'said’ back. Damn, this was tricky. “I tried, keep tryin’, yo. Nobody likes th’ look o’ me." 

  "How would you like gainful employment in an establisment that is notoriously *non*-lookist?” He gestured around him to indicate *which* establishment he was talking about. 

  “*What*?” said Scooterboy. “But *sir*–" 

  "You *ain’t* serious,” warned Logan. 

  “I doubt if Mr Tolensky has any lingering motive to damage us,” breezed the Professor. “Do you?" 

  He and Sara looked at each other, hope making sparks in their eyes. Sara mouthed his thoughts, "We could see each other…" 

  "Hell no, yo. I never wanted t’ fight in the first place,” he said. “'Sides, I keep getting my ass handed to me." 

  Lance, who had left the jeep and opened the door, gawped. "No bullshit, right? This is a legit thing?" 

  "As legitimate as you please,” said the Professor. “We could draw up a legal contract…" 

  "Naw, I’d prefer something we can get out of. Y'awna do this, Toad?" 

  Another look at Sara. "More'n anythin’." 

  ”…fuck…“ he moaned. "You have a deal." 

  Both he and Sara yawped, jumped, and hugged each other in jubilation. At least, until Lance dragged him wholesale into the Jeep. 

  "You,” he announced as they pulled away from the estate, “are entirely pussy-whipped." 

  "Oh, like you ain’t,” he shot back. 

  His reply was the typical finger. Always the automatic response of the slow of mind. 

  Todd just grinned like a bastard. 

 [1] Ancient slang term for someone who interrupts and spoils a date. Repeatedly. On purpose.

~~

  Sara took a moment apart from the party atmosphere in her half of the room to apply some of the new balm Dr McCoy had applied, and to - well - check the status of certain hygene products. 

  At least the balm was a pleasant interlude, and guaranteed that she wouldn’t have to scratch during dinner. 

  Sara tucked as much dangling shed skin into her clothing as she could before informing the others that she was going to assist in the kitchen. 

  “You’ll be sor-reee…” sang Bobby. 

  Sara didn’t mind. She rather liked being useful. She followed the delicious smells into the kitchen and found Ororo, bustling to and fro. 

  “Do you need a hand?" 

  "No free samples,” said Ororo instantly. “I need the table laid, the dishes washed and this mess,” she indicated scatters of debris from other impromptu chefs, “taken care of. Not necessarily in that order." 

  Since preperation space was always a priority, Sara began laboring on the benchtops, cleaning up biodegradables, recyclables, and trash with a kind of cyclic efficiency. Dirty dishes, vessels and utensils were piled near the sink for stage two. 

+

  Ororo turned around twice and there was a clean benchtop. A third time, and the central table was bare. She was amazed even further as clean dishes began to pile up in the drainer. 

  Most teenagers ran a mile when confronted with housework. Sara just dived in as if she’d been doing it all her life. _And considering what I’ve heard about her *mother*… maybe she has been._ "You’re pretty good,” she said. 

  “Just the efficiency of long-term practice,” Sara demurred. “A great many of my old schools used KP as a punishment… but now, I’m one of the Cleanup Fairies." 

  "Whom?" 

  "The Cleanup Fairies,” said Sara. “We go around to houses in desperate need of detoxification and clean them up. There’s a sliding scale, according to how desperate the situation is and whether or not we need skips. There was this one time, we were hired to go through an obsessive-compulsive’s estate. If you can imagine floor-to-ceiling packrattus for thirty rooms. The poor woman died in an accident, by the way. Not to speak ill of the dead, but I was rather surprised she wasn’t buried alive in some of it. Took us a month to get down to the furniture." 

  Ororo shuddered. 

  "At least she hadn’t kept any pets,” Sara breezed. “Those can be hazardous to everyone’s health. I won’t elaborate." 

  Alas, Ororo could clearly picture it. 

  "Most of the time, we do bachelor pads and frat housing,” said Sara. “Lots of bottles, cans, and magazines fit for pulping - if not biohazard." 

  "Ew,” said Ororo. 

  “On the upside, once one’s pursued several archaeological cleanups, the better part of human nature looks all the brighter." 

  "Well… thankyou for helping me with my diet,” sighed Ororo. 

  “Sorry about that,” Sara blushed. “I do tend to go on." 

  "It’s my fault for having a vivid imagination,” she dismissed.

~

  Jean Grey had decided not to blame Sara. After all, the androgynous girl was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Had she, or a different newb turned up a few weeks *after* her argument with the Professor, she might as well have obtained a room of her own. 

  _Unlikely, Jean,_ chided the Professor. _I have a longer memory than most._ 

  It wasn’t *fair*! Just because *he* had standards so high that you got a nosebleed from reaching… 

  _And yet, you’ve stopped trying to reach._ 

  _I was *happy*!_ she telepathically whined. _I had control and a way of coping. It was good._ 

  _You don’t understand your own potential,_ he sighed. _You can be so much more if you just *tried*…_ 

  Jean shut him out, raising her shields. 

  _You’ve needed a kick in the complacency for a long time,_ he 'said’, and left her mind. 

  Jean stabbed at her meal and tried desperately not to sulk. She never really liked it when she was shown up as not being as strong as she thought. She never really liked being trapped in a corner, hemmed in, or otherwise left without choices. 

  Down the table, Sara was making polite conversation with Evan about the nature of homosexuality versus homophobia. “It’s natural to be uncertain,” she was saying. “There’s a certain degree of doubt about social touching and so forth. How much contact is *too* much, which areas are off limits… But choice never comes into it. In the end, one knows what one likes. Fear springs from doubt. The unknown factor. If you *believe* that it’s a matter of choice, then you also believe that someone can *make* you change your choice; or try the lifestyle on for size, as it were.” Sara’s laugh was warm and unforced. “There *are* tales told of predator-types who attempt to force the issue. Fortunately, they’re extremely rare - if not easily convinced that force is not an option. If you know your mind - and your heart - you can’t fall prey to those people." 

  "Okay,” said Evan. “What about gayness by association?" 

  "Said he to the accused lesbian,” Sara chortled. “I think you mean when people roll their eyes and moan 'ga-aaaay’ at whatever suggestion on the table. They mean no slight on anyone’s sexuality. It just happens to be supremely unfortunate that the word 'gay’ has become a slur and a synonym for 'bad’. It’s possible to seperate yourself from the slurs. Just know yourself.” Sara blushed. “Something I haven’t *quite* mastered." 

  Kurt surfaced from his perpetual chewing. "Ja, but you’re practically buried in rumour. Hearing what people say about you is never a good thing for the head." 

  Sara twitched, but acted like it wasn’t happening. "Hearing it ad infinitum is never good for the head." 

  "Way I see it,” said Rogue, “there’s only two ways to go. Be better'n the rumours an’ prove 'em wrong… or be worse than the rumours an’ shut 'em the hell up." 

  "Rather difficult in my case, either way. Thank you though.” Sara took a sip of water. “I’ll just stay true to mine own self. Whoever that may be.”

~