Fanfic time: Misfits part 28

We are now at the halfway point. Yay.

Continued from yesterday:

  _Just give her a chance,_ Jean told herself. _She’s nice to everybody else, and it’s not my fault that her mother uses my name as a weapon. Just be nice and polite and try to get along._ 

  Sara was using her dresser as a study desk, having liberated one of those posture stool/chair thingies from somewhere and scratching some notes into a book. A book which quickly shut when Jean approached. “It’s… sort of - private stuff in these,” she said. “Not that you could read the code, anyway, but - ah… Paranoia’s a hard habit to break." 

  Jean retreated back to her side of the room, cracking her books. "I was just curious,” she breezed. “You looked kind of… intense." 

  "I have a lot to work through,” Sara didn’t even turn to speak, and resumed her jotting at warp speed. “The Professor said that any catharsis is a good one… so… I’m catharsising.” She flipped a page and continued jotting. “I’ll be quiet while you study." 

  And she hadn’t even *looked*. "How did you–" 

  "Jean Grey studies every night,” Sara recited as if it were a law of the universe. 

  _Thank you very much, Sara’s Mom._ Jean rolled her eyes and got on with her homework. Most of it was easy enough, at least until she got to the calculus. 

  There was an encroaching shadow. 

  Jean looked up at Sara and remembered to try being friendly. “Hi." 

  "Seventeen,” said Sara. 

  “Um… What?" 

  "It’s seventeen,” she elaborated. “I remember tripping over a formula somewhere and it all wound up internalized. The answer’s seventeen." 

  "Unfortunately, I have to show my working. But thanks.” Jean flipped to the answers to check and - surprise - the genius was correct. 

  “Well, at least cancel the matching X’s,” Sara indicated the opposites that had been hiding on the page. “They’re extraneous." 

  _D'oh!_ Jean fumed internally, but managed a polite grimace. "Thank you." 

  "But… I’m distracting you. Back to my lair." 

  Without the extra X’s, the problem was only *slightly* less tricky. This went with that and one fiddled and twiddled… and she got seventeen. Yay. 

  On to the next problem. 

  Something was playing in the edge of awareness. Some kind of tinny horror track, judging by the screams. And… an elephant? 

  "What the heck…?” Jean got up from her homework and followed the noise to an alcove where a computer - and several other electronic entertainment devices - nestled. In the centre of the technotangle was Sara, wearing moth-eaten headphones, and tapping and clicking away. 

  _What. Ever._ Jean stomped back to her homework and tried to ignore the sounds of weirdness. By the time she was done with homework, she had a minor headache from maintaining her shields and she *still* had to study for the pop quiz. 

  Urgh. 

  He shields were cracking from the strain. Something of Sara’s leaked through. _The sun is a mass of incandescant gas, a gigantic nuclear furnace…_ 

  If she was studying the sun or solar phenomenon, it could have been helpful. Alas, she was studying trig. Jean built her walls up, but by then, she had the song stuck in her head. 

  Double urgh. 

  In another shield lapse, Istanbul was Constantinople - now it’s Istanbul not Constantinople… 

  If Sara wasn’t providing an excellent encouragement for Jean keeping her shields up, she was also providing excellent shielding ammo. Repetative and circular songs made the mortar, as the Professor said, for a decent wall. The problem was, that if a telepath used the same song as someone else, those outside thoughts could leak in. 

  Sara, getting up from her manufacture of weirdness, opened the windows and let the night air in. “You can’t see the Brotherhood boarding house from here,” she said mournfully. 

  “Toad’s hardly a good choice of boyfriend, anyway,” Jean didn’t look up from the page, trying to burn it into her brain. 

  “His name is *Todd*,” said Sara. “And up until recently, we’ve walked similar paths. Reviled by the popular people. Chattered about behind our backs. Singled out as victims… that sort of thing. He *cared* when no-one else would. That - in my mind, at least - makes him a rather good choice." 

  "You can do so much better?" 

  "Like Duncan Matthews?” Sara said. “Handsome gridiron star, can never do wrong in the eyes of the establishment. His college fees already paid by his mighty thews? Your boyfriend whom, according to rumour, has three other girls on standby in case you ‘flake out on him’?" 

  ”*What*?“ 

  "But rumour is an ever-voracious beast,” Sara dismissed. “One can’t believe everything one hears… or I’d be a very confused individual. A lesbian transsexual gay freak who does unspeakable things to hamsters and harps… according to rumour.” Sara smiled. “The lies people make up about each other are almost as educational as the truth, aren’t they?" 

  "What else have you heard about Duncan Matthews?” Jean wondered. 

  “I’d better not,” Sara held up her hands. “You have this vein in your forehead that just - popped right out… Besides, I have a rather low opinion of Senior males.” A whirl of images and emotions. A limousine, Seniors standing out of the sun roof. The shock and disgust as they threw something. Heartbreak and shame. Wanting to burrow into the centre of the Earth and never come back… 

  All over in a second. Jean shook her head. “Well, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get back to studying for the pop quiz tomorrow." 

  "Um. Isn’t that a contradiction in terms?” asked Sara. “You can’t study for a pop quiz, because their very essence is the element of surprise." 

  Jean groaned. "So I caught my teacher thinking about one. So?" 

  "Isn’t that cheating?" 

  "It’s not cheating, I’m *studying*." 

  "Cheating, dear, is using illegitimate means to gain an advantage over the competition. Dipping into someone’s thoughts is just as wrong as breaking into their office." 

  "One, I did not dip into their thoughts. It slipped out. I just happened to hear it. Two. I am not cheating." 

  Sara sighed. "Well. You’re the telepath…” Doubt radiated off of her as she retreated back into her lair. 

  Jean looked at her watch. Nine thirty. “Only one more hour until lights-out,” she moaned. She was *doomed*. Her A+ average was going to *suffer*. 

  “What? No lights at all?” said Sara, concealed behind bookcases. “They don’t *force* one to sleep - do they?" 

  Now *there* was an idea… "Eight hours’ sleep is the accepted norm - for most people.” Only *Kurt* woke up half an hour before everyone else and replaced the alarm clocks for kicks. “A rested mind is a ready mind." 

  "Ah. I’m afraid I have a rather bad case of chronic insomnia. Usually, I can’t get more than three hours. Four, tops. At home, I’d just work on projects or read. Quiet things. I wouldn’t make a pest of myself, I promise." 

  _Don’t bet on it._ "Well, get used to eight hours’ of darkness. Logan can get intense if you try testing him." 

  Another sigh. "I suppose I could try some meditation techniques. Clear the mind, and so forth. Lord knows, my mentality is past due for some spring cleaning." 

  "As long as it’s *quiet*, I don’t care." 

  "I beg your pardon?" 

  "Mutants new to their powers are mentally 'loud’. Part of the panic process or something. When you get used to it, you’ll quiet back down again, but in the meantime… you’re worse than a one-girl rock concert." 

  "Ouch. I’m so sorry, I had no idea. Is there anything I can–" 

  "Just try to keep your thoughts *quiet*." 

  "Working on it." 

  "Thankyou." 

  Jean went back to her trig, trying to memorise the formulae. 

_…sunlight comes from our own sun’s atomic energy. THE SUN IS A MASS OF INCANDESCANT GAS…_ 

  ”*Sara*…“ 

  "It’s stuck,” she complained. “It’s going to take a lot of work to get rid of it." 

  "So *WORK* on it!" 

  Logan poked his head into the room. "Half an hour 'till lights-out,” he informed. 

  “Can we beg an extra half-hour?” implored Sara. “Jean has to study for a pop quiz and I’m - kinda distracting.” She huffed a laugh. “My thoughts are loud." 

  Logan turned his iron glare on Jean. "Pickin’ your teacher’s brain is cheatin’, Red. Chuck’s gonna hear about this, and he ain’t gonna like it." 

  _Fuck being nice,_ Jean decided. _The lizard girl is going to *die*._

~

  Jean made a show of putting her books away and brushing her hair, well aware of the spectator leaning on the bookcases. 

  Sara had shed her track pants and hoodie, leaving the large T-shirt with Hello Kitty on it. "Do you do a hundred strokes or a thousand?” Sara wondered. “It’s been a bone of contention between mother–” twitch “–and I for quite some time." 

  "A hundred,” she said, dead-voiced. _Go away and leave me alone._ “If I did a thousand, I’d never have time to do *anything*." 

  "I… I’m sorry about telling Logan,” she said. “You were acting like it was all right and– the entire field of mutant ethics and etiquette is new to me." 

  Of course. Sara was one of those people who, when lost about what to do, took their cue from everyone else. It was her own bloody stupid fault for being everyone else at the time. _Jean Grey, you have always dug your own tiger traps…_ "Well, I’m officially in for it anyway. And they’ll find an excuse to pull me out of that class. I can just imagine whatever 'special exercises’ Logan’s cooking up for me." 

  "They are effective as a deterrent, aren’t they?” said Sara. “That’s kind of the point of them." 

  "If you weren’t here,” Jean began. 

  “If I wasn’t here, dear, you would have continued to cheat. You would have been found out, eventually. Either by the Professor… or someone hazardous to mutants. Can you imagine the bad PR caused by someone finding a mutant who - by implication - cheated their way to the top?" 

  That bought chills over her entire body. "I hadn’t thought of that." 

  "I’ve had to once, already,” said Sara. She rubbed some more loose skin off herself. “Mother would have either locked me in a basement or… sold me to some lab." 

  _Kurt, what is it with you and passing your nightmares around?_ 

  _I didn’t say anything!_ Kurt 'said’ back. 

  Maybe it was a spontaneous manifestation. Maybe *Toad* had some nightmares he passed on. Whatever. 

  "You know, if you braid that, you won’t have so many tangles in the morning, and you might get a nice wave in your hair." 

  "What the hell do *you* know about beauty tips?” sneered Jean. 

  “One day, I’ll surprise you,” said Sara. 

  Jean made no reply, but turned on her bedside lamp, and turned off the main lights. “Good night,” she said, rather pointedly. 

  Sara shuffled about and - by the sound of things, eased herself into bed. 

  Jean began working on the trance-state that consisted of her night shields. Part of it was the lyric from _Windmills of my Mind._ She focussed on that to begin with. _Round, like a circle in a spiral, Like a wheel within a wheel. Never ending or beginning, On an ever spinning wheel, Like a snowball down a mountain, Or a carnaval balloon, Like a carousell that’s turning, Running rings around the moon… Like a clock whose hands are sweeping, Past the minutes on it’s face, And the world is like an apple, Whirling silently in space, Like the circles that you find, In the– sun is a mass of incandescant gas…_ 

  Jean rolled over, punched her pillow, and tried again. 

  Only to fail again. 

  “Do you *mind* keeping your *thoughts* down?" 

  "I’m trying…” _All you ever *were* was trying!_ said the echo of her mother. _Hush,_ thought Sara. A vivid image of a field with daisies and soft, sweet-smelling grass and rolling hills and– _THE SUN IS HOT, THE SUN IS NOT A PLACE WHERE WE COULD LIVE…_ 

  “*Sa-raaaaa*…" 

  "There’s only one real way to beat it. It’ll get worse before it gets better. Sorry." 

  Jean put her pillow over her head. _Hurry…_ This night shield stuff was exhausting and unrewarding as ever. 

  According to Sara’s mental jukebox, everyone was older than they’ve ever been - and now they’re even older. Then the thing with Istanbul again. Then a song about a worm who was a drummer but they called him Doctor Worm. Then they all lived on a yellow submarine. Finally, a little number about sleepwalkers. It petered out, at last, and Sara focussed on the quiet meadow again. Intensely. 

  Jean focussed on _The Windmills of my Mind_ once more. She got to the pictures hanging in the hallway loop - or at least the beginning of it - before Sara’s mind began leaking the fibonacci numbers found in the spirals in the centre of a daisy. 

  "Don’t you ever *sleep*?" 

  "Not a lot." 

  "Well, I need *mine*." 

  "Terribly sorr–" 

  Jean sent a vicious blast of dreamless unconsciousness at her. 

  ”…unk,“ muttered Sara as her head hit the pillow. 

  Peace. Sweet, somnalistic silence. ”…yay…“ whispered Jean. She put up her shields and finally - *finally* - got to sleep.

~

  Sara did not need much sleep, that was true. However, her dreams were almost the same as everyone else’s. Her brain - a natural multi-tasking organ - once wrapped in the cover of slumber, dreams quickly and vividly. It condenses the little time Sara needs for rest. 

  …she was walking through a palace. A gaudy place of glossy white, sparkly gemstones and more gold than necessary. Rich hangings covered any bare space and the ceiling was lit with the rainbows of chandalliers. 

  She passed a mirror, finding herself staring at the Lizard Queen of Mars. 

  "Oh boy,” said Crow T. Robot in a passing impersonation of Sam Beckett[1]. 

  She could *sense* them. Three small figures outside the edge of the screen. Flickers in her awareness. She tried to ignore them and examined her face. 

  Her scales were beautiful, now that they were free of the ugly, peeling skin she’d tried not to look at all day. And for a change, white looked good on her. 

  “Remind me why they had to have this scene?” said Tom. 

  “It’s a metaphor,” said the human. 

  “A metaphor for *suck*,” said Crow. 

  She glared right at them. “Quiet,” she hissed. “I’m trying to do this *right*.” She continued through the palace, past a gallery of windows billowing with diaphenous drapery. 

  “Look, she’s checking her laundry,” said Tom. 

  “Not dry yet,” said the human. 

  At last, she came to a grand chamber, where the previous Queen, her mother, lay awaiting death. 

  _I don’t remember this part,_ thought Sara. 

  “We don’t remember it either,” said Tom. 

  “Must be the trauma,” said Crow. 

  “Mother,” she said. “I have fallen in love." 

  "Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah… splat,” said Crow. 

  Her mother was none other than Jaquelline Elsie Adrien - nee Pierce. Still in her pink power suit and still wearing a ludicrously small hat. 

  “Oooh… looks like the makeup department ran out of money,” said the human. 

  “Either that or they go Caucasian when they’re old,” said Crow. 

  Mother pretended that they weren’t there. “You love an *outsider*. You shame us. You shame your entire family… for generations…" 

  "Those generations are dead, mother,” she said. 

  “As you will be in about… twenty minutes,” said Tom, mocking her voice. 

  “As we are dead - if we do not accept these outsiders into our hearts." 

  "Uh… is 'heart’ a synonym for 'boudoir’ on Mars?” said Crow. 

  “We are a proud people,” said Mother. “We will not beg. We will be strong… You do not need this - Earth man." 

  "How about the other golem I have in the oven?” mocked the human. 

  “*I* will find a suitable mate for you,” rasped Mother. 

  “But Mars needs men,” objected Tom. 

  “Manly men,” said the human. 

  “Men in tights?” suggested Crow. 

  “Naw, that’s what did in for the last lot,” said Tom. 

  “Oh mother,” she said. “My heart already beats for him." 

  "It didn’t beat before?” said the human. 

  “Maybe it whips and flogs as well,” said Crow. 

  “There goes our PG rating,” said Tom. 

  “And mine,” said Mother, “breaks. It shatters. Your… fault…” and then she expired. 

  “Ding dong, the bitch is dead,” sang the MST3K crew. “Which old bitch? The wicked bitch!" 

  She ran away, through the palace, shoving aside diaphenous curtains as she was searching for something. 

  "I hate laundry day,” mocked Crow. 

  “Still isn’t dry…” said the human. 

  “Damnit, I said 'no starch’,” said Tom. 

  Sara opened her eyes. Still dark. _Now, ladies and gentlemen, shall we place any wagers as to whether this is one of those nights where sleep comes piecemeal? Or never comes again?_ She checked her clock. 

  3:45 

  _Never comes again, I see._ 

  Jean had voiced her final protest at sometime around quarter to eleven, so that meant… 

  Four and a half hours. Odd. 

  Jean was snoring gently on the other side of the room. Best not to wake her, then. Not after the uproar from last night. She found a new pair of underpants, her toiletries bag and fresh -well- supplies by feel and crept out in the darkness towards the bathroom. 

  Various people in Sara’s history had reccommended warm or hot baths for cramping, and the chill of the night was starting to get to her, so she filled the tub and added a generous squirt of Dr McCoy’s skin potion to the water. 

  Ah. Bliss. Sara took a deep breath and submerged herself. Oh, *yes*. _Thank goodness the Professsor installed the long British bathtubs…_ Instead of a nasty itch, it was a mildly pleasant tickle. So very nice. 

  A shadow encroached, and Sara opened her eyes and surfaced. 

  “God, you just scared the livin’ crap outta me,” said Rogue. “Ah thought you’d *drowned*." 

  Sara thought of covering herself, but reasoned that - since she was unembaressed - Rogue was unoffended by nudity. "Just enjoying the water,” said Sara, slightly out of breath. 

  “Y'all weren’t movin’ fo’ at least a minute." 

  According to the clock on the wall, Sara had been submerged for at least three. She decided not to mention it. "It *is* very nice water. Good for the skin. Or my skin, at any rate.” She smiled. “What are you doing up at this hour?" 

  "Nightmares,” she said. “One of the drawbacks of absorbing people’s mem'ries… ya get their nightmares, too.” She sat on the toilet. “When I woke up, I heard the tap drippin’ in here, an… well…" 

  "The rest makes an amusing party anecdote,” Sara dismissed. The last fragments of clinging skin on her nose let go, and a whole sheet of dead epidermis flopped against Sara’s neck. 

  “Whoah!” Rogue jumped. “Fo’ a minute… Dayumn. Warn a gal, willya?" 

Sara felt her nose. "All present and correct,” she smirked. “With luck, the shedding should be all done by this evening. Which leads to some rather grousome ideas on what to do with the shed skin." 

  "Dare ya to sew it up an’ leave it somewhere,” said Rogue. 

  “You know, with the right stuffing… it could be quite the anti-theft device." 

  They both cackled like witches. 

  "That’s it,” announced Rogue. “Ah’m goin’ ta hell." 

  "Do pass a towel before you go,” said Sara. “The water - lovely though it is - is growing tepid." 

  "It’s barely stopped steamin’…” Rogue passed the towel anyway. 

  “Thankyou. I guess I must have a different scale of temperature.” She exited, wrapping herself up, and withdrew the plug. “Do you mind standing outside whilst I get at least partially decent?" 

  "Naw, I shoulda scooted when you woke up,” Rogue zipped out in the hallway. “What’s it like sheddin’ *your* skin?" 

  "Annoying,” Sara summarised, trying not to tangle the growing tatters in the towelling. “It itches, it cramps, it blisters and hurts… and when it gets pulled, I’m in varying degrees of minor agony." 

  "Ow." 

  "The eyes are the real nasty business. One has to wash in order to evict the last shreds." 

  "You shed from your eyes? Eee-eeeuw… Todd didn’t know what he was complainin’ about." 

  "You had an opportunity to witness one of his sheds?" 

  "I weren’t always with Xavier. I got sickie-duty once when he had a bad cold on top of a shed… Man that got ugly." 

  The mental picture for Sara was vivid. "Aw… the poor dear. He did recover quickly, I hope." 

  "You actually *like* him?” Rogue scoffed. “*Why*?" 

  "Why not? He has a surprising array of redeeming qualities, you know.” Sara slid on her clothes and placed the now-damp towel with her borrowed underwear in the laundry basket. The sanitary napkin went into the appropriately-labelled bin. When she emerged, Rogue was staring at her. 

  “You’re a puzzle,” she said. “Ah never got why you hung 'round with that little Wiltshire bitch… she makes *up* half the stuff people say about you, you know." 

  "I’m well aware,” said Sara. “I’m also well aware that I’m the only friend she has." 

 [1] _Quantum Leap_, in case nobody remembers.

~~