Post by Pyro on Jul 28, 2006 10:23:18 GMT -5
Many people have recurring dreams or nightmares, but John Allerdyce had about four different ones to choose from. Most nights he woke at least once, sometimes several times, alternately bathed in sweat, gasping for breath, crying like a baby or shaking violently. He could never quite recall the details of each nightmare to mind, which somehow made it worse.
Whilst at Xavier’s, the nightmares had pretty much stopped after his sessions with the Professor. Charles Xavier had gently probed the troubled teenager’s mind, determining that the psionic abilities he possessed which allowed him such phenomenal control over fire were also opening him up to psychic vibrations from all around him – and in a mansion that also contained Jean Grey, these vibrations took the form of terrible nightmares. John picked up the echoes of the Phoenix’s dreams.
That had been the explanation Xavier had given him. He had also sensed other, underlying problems that most likely contributed to John’s sleepless nights; several deep rooted psychoses that the Professor could control – for now, but which may well give cause for concern later in life. For the time being, he’d placed inhibitors into John’s mind, which served a dual purpose. The boy was protected from external influences, which allowed him to sleep. The blocks also suppressed, for the time being, the growing madness. Xavier had always intended to work with the boy when the time came.
But the time had never come.
And then John had fled the Institute to join Magneto’s cause, much to Xavier’s lasting sorrow. But he took some comfort in the knowledge that the blocks would last.
He hadn’t anticipated the destruction of his corporeal form, however.
On Xavier’s death, all the mental work that he had done with John, and with other students, unravelled. Some, which were quick fixes, happened without the patient even noticing. Others, which were far more deeply inserted in the cerebrum took longer. John’s had taken the form of constant, niggling headaches which sometimes flared into the kind of migraines that all but knocked him out.
And his nightmares had returned, even without Jean Grey’s presence.
This particular night, much to his shame, was one of those that saw him waking himself up with the sound of his own crying; not just a little bit of weeping, but huge, wracking sobs that tore through his body.
Mystique had slept lightly, anticipating something, though what she couldn't be sure. For all she knew Pyro's lingering suspicions about her would manifest in a knife to her throat at 3am... It wouldn't have been the first time.
When she felt his body jerk as a sob broke free, her eyes opened in the darkness. A breath rushed thickly into his throat and she pressed herself to his back, slipping an arm around him in much the same manner she had the night before in the practice yard. Saying nothing, she held him steady, preparing for an outburst of some sort.
She'd known her own sort of torment in the years she'd walked the earth. It was difficult finding an identity when one could be whatever one chose. She'd walked the edge of her own sanity, and saw the telltale cracks in John's psyche. What Xavier had done to him, whatever Emma may have added to the mix, and god knows how Jean may have influenced him... Pyro was both stronger, and weaker than Mystique had ever been. It tugged at her sympathy, and in the warm space between them, she breathed softly on his neck, kissing the skin there almost maternally.
On a subconscious level, the young man was aware that she was there, that she was simply holding him, not demanding anything of him and he allowed the tears to flow. He felt a terrible sense of grief, of shame, of loss – yet he didn’t understand why.
In time, of course, the tears stopped as full wakefulness came upon him and he sat up, wiping at his eyes, ashamed of being caught like this. He was trembling slightly and the occasional sob still assaulted him, like a hiccup. Reaching for the glass of water he kept by the bed, he took a long drink and calmed himself.
Then, and only then, did he address his bed partner.
“I didn’t mean to wake you, I’m sorry.”
She didn't reach out to touch him again. It didn't seem to be what he wanted from her.
"I had a feeling it would happen. Don't be concerned." She watched him with her head laid over the curve of her arm. "Would you like to be alone?"
“No,” he said, truthfully. “No. It feels good to have someone here. Every other night or so this happens. Sometimes it’s this, other times I feel like I’m drowning, I can’t breathe…or I’m so cold, like all my inner fires have gone out…” He shivered at the mere thought.
Once he’d finally stopped, he slid down the bed and back into her embrace, pressing himself into her tightly and clinging onto the arms that came around his chest. Almost absently, he kissed her arm. “They’re more than just nightmares,” he said, his voice so soft as to be barely audible. “They’re…like memories. But they’re not mine.”
Mystique's fingers drew lines into his hair, smoothing it back from his forehead over and over.
"You seem to be sensitive to things like that. Did Xavier ever say anything about it?" She knew it was likely Xavier wouldn't have shared the information until he thought John was ready, never thinking something might happen to him and leave the boy to his own defenses, confused, tormented, lost. Damn him.
"I think... when you can see so much, sometimes you can take too much confidence in it. I've seen them all do it. He thought he would always be there for you." She sighed softly.
"But you never needed him to begin with. You can survive this.”
John had listened, despite what Xavier had thought, during their sessions. “He thought I’m a bit of a receptor for psychic vibrations. Y’know. The way I control fire is with my mind? Psionically, he said. Which means maybe my brain’s just that little bit more sensitive.”
He lapsed into silence, taking an enormous amount of comfort in her presence. He was hot, but not as if feverish; she’d already established that his normal body temperature was higher than usual, probably part of his mutation. “Tell me something about you,” he said, suddenly, no longer wanting to dwell on his own problems.”
Mystique opened her eyes again, surprised. Herself? Not many had shown interest. Perhaps they had all been afraid to know.
She held him a bit tighter, taking heat from him, letting it radiate over her body. "I was born in what is now Berlin... I didn't grow up there." Suddenly she realized she wasn't sure what to tell, and what to keep for her own. Her head bent down and her forehead pressed to his back.
"I've lived a lot of places. As a lot of people. You know... Eric... Magneto. He was one of the first to give me permission to live exactly as I am. Before we met I spent a lot of time as other people." May as well keep to what he already knew...
“I think you were stunning as you were,” said John, with surprising conviction. “I was sort of jealous of how well you held yourself…I still am, really.” He shifted position in the bed so that he was lying on his back and put his arm around her, drawing her in close. It was remarkably easy and almost familiar.
“You fascinate me,” he said. “And I mean that as a compliment. You’ve done so much, haven’t you? You have so much knowledge. My experience is limited to Alcatraz and robbing a bank in England. I want to do this thing right.”
Their roles reversed, suddenly, and it was him stroking her hair. “What are you most frightened of in the world, Mystique?”
Her arm laid over his chest easily. Laying here with him, all the oddities of their relationship melted away. She did not worry about his age, or his confidence in himself as a leader. She no longer gave a thought to his motivations, nor really cared if he was getting the wrong idea about what had happened tonight. It felt very close to friendship, in a fashion more intimate than what she had shared with Eric. Mystique smiled to herself, sighing comfortably.
"Most frightened of..." she chuckled in a whisper. "You know, everything shifts, moves, changes. I can't say I don't fear anything, only that I know if my fears come true, they aren't forever. Everything gives way to something else in time."
She breathed quietly for a moment, then spoke again. "I fear things becoming worse for us. That the world will change and come against us worse than it ever has. I saw the faces of the children in the concentration camps, the women and men all separated into careful little... pens." Her voice fell to a whisper. "They'll do that to us one day, if we are not very careful."
“No,” he said, and his tone was fierce. “No, because I won’t let them do that to us. I won’t. All the time there’s breath left in my body, all the time I can fight – it’s not going to happen.”
He was so passionate. He was like a young Magneto in so many ways. Erik had done a sterling job of moulding the boy after his own likeness – or perhaps it was just that he really was that passionate about it.
John turned slightly and traced the line of her jaw with his finger.
“I hope,” he said, “that the belief you’ve shown in me isn’t unfounded.”
She lifted her head and kissed him softly. "That's up to you. Strength, endurance... it's a choice."
"I never... thanked you for not questioning my presence here after what happened with Magneto. You know, I came here prepared to kill you if you were still his parrot. But you're not... very much not."
His heart quickened; she felt it through his chest. “I was never his parrot. He and I were merely walking in the same direction for a while and it was far easier to be in his shadow and wait for my turn in the sun.”
He smiled, then, and it was such an unusual expression on his face that it almost took her by surprise. “And you don’t have to thank me,” he said. “Magneto may have been able to write off everything you ever did for the cause, but I haven’t.”
John stretched out his tired body. He’d slept that night more deeply and more relaxed than he’d done in months, maybe even years. He knew that this ‘thing’ with Mystique was nothing more than him needing contact from another living person, to give him a sense that he was still alive. He’d got that and he’d enjoyed it, too. Rather self-consciously, he hoped she had, too.
“We make a great team, you and I,” he said, his voice showing signs of sleepiness. “Don’t we?”
Mystique lay back, running her hand over her eyes. He had a way of catching her just when she was starting to like him, then making it sting a little.
They were far more alike than she wanted to admit.
With a bit of a laugh, she grinned in the darkness. "That we do."
Whilst at Xavier’s, the nightmares had pretty much stopped after his sessions with the Professor. Charles Xavier had gently probed the troubled teenager’s mind, determining that the psionic abilities he possessed which allowed him such phenomenal control over fire were also opening him up to psychic vibrations from all around him – and in a mansion that also contained Jean Grey, these vibrations took the form of terrible nightmares. John picked up the echoes of the Phoenix’s dreams.
That had been the explanation Xavier had given him. He had also sensed other, underlying problems that most likely contributed to John’s sleepless nights; several deep rooted psychoses that the Professor could control – for now, but which may well give cause for concern later in life. For the time being, he’d placed inhibitors into John’s mind, which served a dual purpose. The boy was protected from external influences, which allowed him to sleep. The blocks also suppressed, for the time being, the growing madness. Xavier had always intended to work with the boy when the time came.
But the time had never come.
And then John had fled the Institute to join Magneto’s cause, much to Xavier’s lasting sorrow. But he took some comfort in the knowledge that the blocks would last.
He hadn’t anticipated the destruction of his corporeal form, however.
On Xavier’s death, all the mental work that he had done with John, and with other students, unravelled. Some, which were quick fixes, happened without the patient even noticing. Others, which were far more deeply inserted in the cerebrum took longer. John’s had taken the form of constant, niggling headaches which sometimes flared into the kind of migraines that all but knocked him out.
And his nightmares had returned, even without Jean Grey’s presence.
This particular night, much to his shame, was one of those that saw him waking himself up with the sound of his own crying; not just a little bit of weeping, but huge, wracking sobs that tore through his body.
Mystique had slept lightly, anticipating something, though what she couldn't be sure. For all she knew Pyro's lingering suspicions about her would manifest in a knife to her throat at 3am... It wouldn't have been the first time.
When she felt his body jerk as a sob broke free, her eyes opened in the darkness. A breath rushed thickly into his throat and she pressed herself to his back, slipping an arm around him in much the same manner she had the night before in the practice yard. Saying nothing, she held him steady, preparing for an outburst of some sort.
She'd known her own sort of torment in the years she'd walked the earth. It was difficult finding an identity when one could be whatever one chose. She'd walked the edge of her own sanity, and saw the telltale cracks in John's psyche. What Xavier had done to him, whatever Emma may have added to the mix, and god knows how Jean may have influenced him... Pyro was both stronger, and weaker than Mystique had ever been. It tugged at her sympathy, and in the warm space between them, she breathed softly on his neck, kissing the skin there almost maternally.
On a subconscious level, the young man was aware that she was there, that she was simply holding him, not demanding anything of him and he allowed the tears to flow. He felt a terrible sense of grief, of shame, of loss – yet he didn’t understand why.
In time, of course, the tears stopped as full wakefulness came upon him and he sat up, wiping at his eyes, ashamed of being caught like this. He was trembling slightly and the occasional sob still assaulted him, like a hiccup. Reaching for the glass of water he kept by the bed, he took a long drink and calmed himself.
Then, and only then, did he address his bed partner.
“I didn’t mean to wake you, I’m sorry.”
She didn't reach out to touch him again. It didn't seem to be what he wanted from her.
"I had a feeling it would happen. Don't be concerned." She watched him with her head laid over the curve of her arm. "Would you like to be alone?"
“No,” he said, truthfully. “No. It feels good to have someone here. Every other night or so this happens. Sometimes it’s this, other times I feel like I’m drowning, I can’t breathe…or I’m so cold, like all my inner fires have gone out…” He shivered at the mere thought.
Once he’d finally stopped, he slid down the bed and back into her embrace, pressing himself into her tightly and clinging onto the arms that came around his chest. Almost absently, he kissed her arm. “They’re more than just nightmares,” he said, his voice so soft as to be barely audible. “They’re…like memories. But they’re not mine.”
Mystique's fingers drew lines into his hair, smoothing it back from his forehead over and over.
"You seem to be sensitive to things like that. Did Xavier ever say anything about it?" She knew it was likely Xavier wouldn't have shared the information until he thought John was ready, never thinking something might happen to him and leave the boy to his own defenses, confused, tormented, lost. Damn him.
"I think... when you can see so much, sometimes you can take too much confidence in it. I've seen them all do it. He thought he would always be there for you." She sighed softly.
"But you never needed him to begin with. You can survive this.”
John had listened, despite what Xavier had thought, during their sessions. “He thought I’m a bit of a receptor for psychic vibrations. Y’know. The way I control fire is with my mind? Psionically, he said. Which means maybe my brain’s just that little bit more sensitive.”
He lapsed into silence, taking an enormous amount of comfort in her presence. He was hot, but not as if feverish; she’d already established that his normal body temperature was higher than usual, probably part of his mutation. “Tell me something about you,” he said, suddenly, no longer wanting to dwell on his own problems.”
Mystique opened her eyes again, surprised. Herself? Not many had shown interest. Perhaps they had all been afraid to know.
She held him a bit tighter, taking heat from him, letting it radiate over her body. "I was born in what is now Berlin... I didn't grow up there." Suddenly she realized she wasn't sure what to tell, and what to keep for her own. Her head bent down and her forehead pressed to his back.
"I've lived a lot of places. As a lot of people. You know... Eric... Magneto. He was one of the first to give me permission to live exactly as I am. Before we met I spent a lot of time as other people." May as well keep to what he already knew...
“I think you were stunning as you were,” said John, with surprising conviction. “I was sort of jealous of how well you held yourself…I still am, really.” He shifted position in the bed so that he was lying on his back and put his arm around her, drawing her in close. It was remarkably easy and almost familiar.
“You fascinate me,” he said. “And I mean that as a compliment. You’ve done so much, haven’t you? You have so much knowledge. My experience is limited to Alcatraz and robbing a bank in England. I want to do this thing right.”
Their roles reversed, suddenly, and it was him stroking her hair. “What are you most frightened of in the world, Mystique?”
Her arm laid over his chest easily. Laying here with him, all the oddities of their relationship melted away. She did not worry about his age, or his confidence in himself as a leader. She no longer gave a thought to his motivations, nor really cared if he was getting the wrong idea about what had happened tonight. It felt very close to friendship, in a fashion more intimate than what she had shared with Eric. Mystique smiled to herself, sighing comfortably.
"Most frightened of..." she chuckled in a whisper. "You know, everything shifts, moves, changes. I can't say I don't fear anything, only that I know if my fears come true, they aren't forever. Everything gives way to something else in time."
She breathed quietly for a moment, then spoke again. "I fear things becoming worse for us. That the world will change and come against us worse than it ever has. I saw the faces of the children in the concentration camps, the women and men all separated into careful little... pens." Her voice fell to a whisper. "They'll do that to us one day, if we are not very careful."
“No,” he said, and his tone was fierce. “No, because I won’t let them do that to us. I won’t. All the time there’s breath left in my body, all the time I can fight – it’s not going to happen.”
He was so passionate. He was like a young Magneto in so many ways. Erik had done a sterling job of moulding the boy after his own likeness – or perhaps it was just that he really was that passionate about it.
John turned slightly and traced the line of her jaw with his finger.
“I hope,” he said, “that the belief you’ve shown in me isn’t unfounded.”
She lifted her head and kissed him softly. "That's up to you. Strength, endurance... it's a choice."
"I never... thanked you for not questioning my presence here after what happened with Magneto. You know, I came here prepared to kill you if you were still his parrot. But you're not... very much not."
His heart quickened; she felt it through his chest. “I was never his parrot. He and I were merely walking in the same direction for a while and it was far easier to be in his shadow and wait for my turn in the sun.”
He smiled, then, and it was such an unusual expression on his face that it almost took her by surprise. “And you don’t have to thank me,” he said. “Magneto may have been able to write off everything you ever did for the cause, but I haven’t.”
John stretched out his tired body. He’d slept that night more deeply and more relaxed than he’d done in months, maybe even years. He knew that this ‘thing’ with Mystique was nothing more than him needing contact from another living person, to give him a sense that he was still alive. He’d got that and he’d enjoyed it, too. Rather self-consciously, he hoped she had, too.
“We make a great team, you and I,” he said, his voice showing signs of sleepiness. “Don’t we?”
Mystique lay back, running her hand over her eyes. He had a way of catching her just when she was starting to like him, then making it sting a little.
They were far more alike than she wanted to admit.
With a bit of a laugh, she grinned in the darkness. "That we do."
