Series:  First of the Falling Apart Together series.

Summary: The occupants of Xavier's School for the Gifted try to move on after Jean's death.  Some handle it differently than others.

Rating: R – for language.

Categories: X3, AU

Characters:  Pairing not named yet.  I keep it a secret for a little while.  I'm weird like that.  Deal with it.

Genres: Angst, Adult, Shipper

Warnings:  Overall story warning, not necessarily specific to this chapter - grief and loss issues.  Character death. 
Author's Notes 1:  I watched X2 again a couple of weeks ago and one scene reached out and squeezed the breath out of me when I saw something I'd never really paid attention to before.  So I followed that up with a specific scene from X3 and a realization slapped me in the face.  It slapped me hard.  I watched those scenes three times and all I could think was, My God, no one cares.  So I decided to make someone care. 
Author's Notes 2: For story purposes, Jean's "death" in X2 took place in late January.  Oh, and I hate Jean.  Absolutely fucking loathe her.  Just thought I'd state that for Jean lovers.  You won't find validation here.

Distribution: The Wayside Inn, Empress' Private Library, and Lady Scriven's only.  All others ask first.

Disclaimer: I own no one.  Marvel owns it all.  Alas, that means Logan belongs to Marvel too, so I can't keep him.  But I'd be happy as all hell to Wolvie-sit should it ever be necessary.  *eg*

Yesterday,
All my troubles seemed so far away,
Now it looks as though they're here to stay,
Oh, I believe in yesterday.
Suddenly, I'm not half the man I used to be,
There's a shadow hanging over me,
Oh, yesterday came suddenly.
Why she had to go I don't know,
She wouldn't say.
I said something wrong,
Now I long for yesterday.
            Yesterday - The Beatles 

Shortly After Alkali Lake…

He's trying.

Really, he is.  I stand next to him, a lump in my throat, tears in my eyes that burn, but won't fall.

Here we stand in the office of one of the most powerful men on the planet - some would argue - and all I can think of is how much I wish we were anywhere else but here.  I know we have to be.  If we don't convince the President now not to make a rash decision, we all may as well go live in a cave in Canada somewhere, because our lives won't be worth two cents in our own country.  And yet, he stands near me fighting his grief so hard, that all I can think about his him.  I don't give a damn about mutant/human relations or politics or any of that bureaucratic or sociological bullshit.  All I care about is him and somehow taking some of that pain from him.  Ease some of the burden on his shoulders.

I know he's strong.  God knows we all can see that every day that we've ever fought beside him.  But even the strongest can break if subjected to enough pressure.  And I'm afraid he's reached his with her death.  I don't know what the future holds for him now without her.  Or for any of us.  But I can guarantee it isn't going to be pretty.  And yet, I'll stand somewhere behind or beside him, ready to help him in any way I can.  In any way he would ask for it.

I would give anything, gladly, freely, without regret, just to have him not hurt so much.  Because I love him, knowing I shouldn't.  Knowing it's futile, and nothing will ever come from it - can't come from it.  But that doesn't change how I feel.  I love him enough to want to see him happy with someone else rather than miserable alone.

When the Professor says that there's been casualties on both sides, I can feel his flinch even though barely a muscle moves on his face to indicate the pain he's feeling right now.  I reach for his hand without even realizing I'm actually doing it.  Only when I thread my fingers through his, and he latches on, squeezing my hand tightly, does it register what I've done. 

I don't look at him.  He doesn't look at me.  We both stare fixedly ahead at the man who can either help us or make our lives a living hell.  I can't help but wonder what's going through the President's mind as he looks us all over.  I know he sees the two of us, particularly.  The strong man next to me struggling not to break down, while I give him my best blank look, the one I wore every day until I met the people in this room.  Two statues, frozen in flesh and blood, and emotion, standing at attention in the Oval Office, but holding hands like two little kids on a school yard playground.  He's got to think it peculiar.  I know I would.  But his eyes give away nothing, even if they do drift back to the two of us a few seconds later and then focus on the man beside me. 

He stands rigid, his chin quivering as he fights his grief, his grip on my fingers now making them go numb.  I don't care.  They and rot, turn black and fall off before I let him go.  They're a small price to pay to be able to give him what little comfort I can.  I can't imagine the agony he must be in.  I can only compare it to what I feel watching him struggle so hard.  That's misery enough. 

I love him.  And as much as it hurts me to see him in such pain, his has got to be ten times that, or more.  I don't even have him, but I don't know what I'd do if I ever lost him.  It would probably drive me insane.

A splash of wetness on the black leather my uniform surprises me, unaware that the tears I've been unable to shed now fall freely.  The President gives me an odd look, probably wondering why one of the freaks is standing before him and crying.  The tears roll one after another down my face, burning hot trails down both cheeks, making the dark splashes on my uniform even broader. 

Let the President think what he likes.  I don't really give a shit.  I cry freely and openly because the one who needs to, won't.  Not here.  Not now.  He will when he's alone.  I know him well enough to know that.

"We'll be watching," Logan says, and it feels right. 

The fingers around mine tighten even a bit more.  Yes, I nod slightly, and they relax again, but still don't let go.

I'll be watching, but not the President or his actions.  I'll be watching him.  Someone has to be there for him.  I'll gladly volunteer.  In the mean time, until he can, or will, I cry for him. 

-x- 

You could have bowed out gracefully
But you didn't
You knew enough to know to leave well enough alone
But you wouldn't
I drive myself crazy trying to stay out of my own way
The messes that I made
But my secrets are so safe
The only one who gets me
Yeah, you get me
It's amazing to me
How every day
Every day, every day
You save my life
            Every Day - Rascal Flatts

Two days later…

Her body was lost to the waters of Alkali Lake, so it was agreed that there'd be no tombstone or marker.  Just a gathering on the side lawn near the rose garden where she liked to spend some of her rare free time. 

I'm the last one in line.  I don't know how I did that.  Just that I am. So while everyone stops to express their condolences to the Professor, I watch him where he stands off to the side, projecting his desire to be left alone very clearly.

It's like they don't care.  I know they do.  But since they don't know what to say, it looks like they don't care about what he's going through.  Only a few of them will even approach him, and those that do just mumble empty platitudes.  No one will meet his eyes. 

He looks so miserable, like this is almost as painful as her death was in the first place.  Making my decision, I leave the queue and pick my way across the grass to where he's standing staring blindly down into a rose bush. 

I've always thought the empty, inane things people say at funerals were more harmful than the well-wishers realize.  So I don't say the usual empty words.  Instead, I come to a halt beside him.  I clasp my fingers together in front of me and just wait until he acknowledges me.

It only takes a minute or two.  "Hey."

I turn towards him.  "Hey."  Again I wait.

After a moment, he pulls his gaze from the bush and turns to face me, staring down into my eyes.  I can feel his gaze on my face like it's a tangible thing.  He's waiting for me to say something.  Problem is, I don't know what to say.  Everything you normally say at times like this just feels so wrong. 

But he and I have never had what most call a conventional relationship, so I say what I'm really feeling.  "I wish I could take this away from you.  So you didn't have to go through this."

He nods.  Coming from anyone else, that statement would probably freak him out.  But from me, he seems to believe it.  "Thanks.  I almost wish you could too."  He shakes his head.  "I wouldn't want you to feel like this though."

"Looks like we're destined to feel this way together then.  Because I already am."

He shakes his head again.  "You don't need to take on the responsibility of my feelings."

I give him a sad smile.  "Remember my first nightmare after Liberty Island?"

He nods.  "How could I forget?  You nearly screamed the house down."

"Yeah, that one.  I woke up screaming and crying, still trying to run away from," I fight a shudder and lose, "Sabretooth…"

He reaches out and rubs his hand up and down my arm.  "Don't."

God, I love this man, standing here trying to comfort me from a three year old nightmare when his whole world is falling apart around him.  He wasn't kidding.  My screams had woken almost the whole house, and had damn near deafened my roommates.  Just as I was about to jump headfirst through the windowpane, the door to my room opened and there he stood, barefooted, pajama bottoms, and looking all for the world that he was about to kill whatever he found inside that had made me scream. 

When I wasn't calming down, when I thought Sabretooth and Magneto where hiding somewhere he couldn’t see them, he'd made the roomies leave to go get Jean, probably thinking I needed to be sedated or something.  He sat down on the edge of my bed and pulled me up close against him, tucking my head neatly beneath his chin and just held me until the tremors stopped.  He even talked to me the whole time, holding me tight, talking softly against the top of my head, his hands running soothingly down my arms.  It was wonderful. 

I'd not had anyone care about me enough to do something like that for so long, that I just latched on to him refusing to let go until Jean came in armed with a tiny little syringe filled with a liquid  that knocked me on my ass for almost a complete twenty-four hours.  Not my finest hour, I'll admit, and it did nothing to endear me to Jean or the roomies, but hey, they'd not just aged almost fifty years of the mind in a span of a couple of hours.  I had. 

I think I first fell for him that night.  Yeah, it started out as a crush, hero worship or whatever.  But somewhere over the years it changed, deepened, matured, and now here I am desperately in love with a man who sees me only as a friend.  A little sister type.  But I don't care.  He needs me right now.

I put my hand over his, effectively ceasing his movements.  "Do you remember what you told me that night when I said that I didn't think I'd ever be over it?  You told me that you'd go through it with me, so I wouldn't have to face it alone.  That whenever I got over it, is when I got over it.  I wasn't on a timeline.  And you wouldn't let anyone else put me on one.  Remember?"

He clears his throat and looks away from me.  "Yeah.  I remember."  He looks back.  "I meant it too."

"And so do I."  I want to hug him so badly, but I don't.  Instead, I stand there and smile, trying to make sure my feelings and sincerity show in my eyes and on my face.  "We're gonna go through this together, you and I."

"I'm falling apart here."

"I know," I answer him.  "I'll pick up the pieces.  I'll be right here whenever you need me, okay?  No timelines.  No pressure.  You need, and I'll be there.  I'll go through it with you."

He searches my face, a slight frown curving his mouth downward.  "Why?"

My smile doesn't falter, even as my heart thuds painfully against my ribs and my stomach suddenly decides now is a good time to do somersaults.  "Later.  Ask me that again sometime.  Not now.  For now, I'll just say that you need it and I need to do it.  Just, let me do this, okay?"

He bows his head again, and shoves his hands into his trouser pockets.  Finally he exhales loudly and nods.  "Okay.  It's not going to be easy though," he warns me.  "I'm probably not going to be the best of company for a while."

Feeling like I can suddenly breathe again, my heart slows down into its normal pattern and my smile goes even brighter.  "Duly noted.  So, that said…anything I can do for you?"

"No.  Maybe."  He thinks for a moment.  "Like what?"

I can't help but smile because I mean what I'm about to say.  "Anything.  Whatever you need.  Just let me know I'll help anyway I can."

"Okay," he nods again then turns back to look down into the shrub again.

I turn to leave, but his hand on my arm stops me.  "Wait."

So I do. 

Turning to look at him over my shoulder.  His hand slides down from above my elbow down to my hand, curling his fingers around mine, and squeezing.  Almost too tightly.  But I don't care.  With a small tug, he turns me completely around so I'm facing him again.  He opens his mouth once or twice trying to form words to express whatever's on his mind, but can't seem to make the muscles work.

I can't help but give him a watery smile, my own tears starting up again at the helpless anguish on his face.  "I know.  It's okay," I hear myself say as I place my free hand on his shoulder, unsure myself of what I mean, but it seems to be what he wants to hear. 

We've always had that odd kind of kinship, he and I.  Knowing what the other needed before the need was even verbalized.  And more than one person we knew didn't like that about us either.  My gaze strays to where my hand rests on his shoulder.  The black of my satin glove disappears into the same unrelenting hue of his jacket.  There's something profound there, but I'm not sure I know what it means.  I drop my hand.

"Stay a minute?"

I nod and just stand beside him, and quietly stare at the rose bush.  He doesn’t let go of me.  I don't try to make him.  Whatever he needs.  I said it and I meant it.  Whatever.  Whenever.  Wherever.  And anyone who doesn't understand, or approve, can go straight to hell.

After a few minutes of us just standing there together, I can already hear the whispers beginning.  Not all of them nice or understanding either.  But I expected this, knew it was going to happen the minute I made the decision to walk over here to be with him.  It's human nature, sadly enough, to see a situation, misunderstand it, and make the incorrect, small-minded judgment all in a split second.  Very few people ever get it right.  And those of my so-called friends who did get it right weren't the ones whispering. 

He hears them too.  I can tell by the way he cocks his head.  "You'd better go.  You don't need this right now."

"I don't give a flying damn about them.  I do however give one about you.  You asked me to stay.  I'm staying.  Fuck 'em if they don't like it."

He gives a bitter snort of sound, almost a laugh, but choked with pain and anger.  "Nah.  You wouldn't enjoy it.  They'd just lay there and bitch at you."

I can't help it, and I start to giggle.  "You're rotten." 

He gives me a tiny grin.  Just a quirk of the lips, really.  "But you love me that way."

And that quickly, my laughter dries up.  "Yeah.  I do."  Cheeks flaming, I cover my embarrassment by stepping closer, wrapping an arm around his waist, and ducking my head against his shoulder, in a half-hug which he returns with a surprisingly desperate grip.

When I go to move away, he tightens his fingers on my hip and anchors me against his side.  Evidently I'm not moving any time soon, not that I really wanted to anyway.  Again we fall back into an easy silence and I listen to the ragged breaths he draws, wondering how much more he can take before he snaps. 

Regardless of the brief moment of banter a few minutes prior, he's in torment.  Maybe no one else can see it under his stoic façade, or they just choose not to, I don't know.  But I can feel it with every breath he draws in.  A very private man, he won't show it on the outside if he can help it.  Breaking down in front of us all like he had the day she died was enough.

I really don't have any clue how long we've been standing here like this when I feel him turn a bit to the side to look somewhere past me over my shoulder.  "He's waiting for you."

I don't need to look to see who he's talking about.  There could only be one person who'd do that.  And I really wasn't in the mood to talk to him right now anyway.  "So?"

He doesn't glance back over, but instead turns his gaze to me.  "Problems?"

"Not anymore.  Over and done with a while ago.  Remember?"

"Yeah.  And I'm still sorry."

I squeeze his hand.  "I'm not."

He squeezes it back, and then nods.  "Thanks."

Without another word, he releases my hand and walks slowly away from me.   I stand alone by the rose bush and watch him go, his shoulders hunched, head bowed, as he moves jerkily, almost blindly across the lawns, down towards the lake.  Only when the Professor calls my name softly do I turn away from the solitary figure I can barely make out in the distance.

"It's been a long day, my dear.  Come inside."

I sigh, and nod, even though I don't move from where I'm standing, my eyes still following the same path that my heart took long ago.  "Is he going to be okay?"

"Only he can answer that."  I hear the soft whir of a motor beside me as he turns his wheelchair a bit to follow my gaze.  "Given enough time, and with the support of loving friends, yes, I quite think he will." 

"I don't know what to do for him, Professor."

A strong warm hand curls around the one released a few minutes prior, the skin of his palm catching a little on the satin covering mine.  It amazes me sometimes how a man as cultured and elegant as Professor Xavier has such strong, calloused hands.  They feel…safe.  Like home.  I wrap my fingers around his and cling hard. 

"You're already doing for him what he needs to be done.  Be there for him.  Be his friend.  Just be yourself."

Tearing my eyes away from the lake and the nearly broken man standing so still on its shore, I turn bleak eyes back to the Professor, unsurprised to see those brilliant blue orbs glassy with the tears of his own grief.  Only then do I remember he's lost a woman who was like a daughter to him. 

Dropping to my knees in the grass by his wheelchair, I reach up, wrapping both arms around his neck and hug him, laying my head on his shoulder.  "I'm so sorry."

He returns my hug, even if a little stiffly, and pats my shoulder.  "Thank you, my dear."  He pulls back just a little, and I release him, leaning back on my heels, not caring that I'm getting soaked through from the damp grass, ruining my best black skirt.  Some things are just more important than clothing, no matter what Jubes thinks.

The professor smiles at me, and lays a hand on the side of my head, his fingers smoothing down my hair just a bit before stopping just above my right ear.  He looks into my eyes and I can feel that little tickle in the back of my mind a split second before I feel him in my head, a warm, reassuring presence that would make most people uncomfortable.  But not me.  I'm used to him in there now.  My eyes slide closed, as I feel him sifting through the thoughts and emotions inside.  Strangely enough, it's a comforting sensation for me, like something is finally going to make it all alright again.

He doesn't say anything, but then again, he doesn't have to when he does this.  I can feel how much he loves me.  How much he cares what happens to me and how my mutation will affect my life and those around me.  He's more of a father to me than my own father ever was.  And this time it's no different, except, I can feel him a little stronger than normal.  I can feel his pain and his hurt at what's happened to our family - because that's what we have here.  A family. 

He lets the contact go on a little longer than he usually does, and my brows start to furrow.  He's worried.  But hopeful too.  That maybe I'm the one who…

But he takes his hand from my hair and the thought is gone.  Sluggishly, like I've got weights on them, my eyes open and I look at him to see him smiling brightly at me, that same hope I felt when he was in my mind shining dazzlingly on his face and in his eyes.  Blinking, I can't help but feel better in the face of such a look and I smile back. 

-x- 

I come around all broken down and crowded out
And you are a comfort
Sometimes the place I go is so deep and dark and desperate
I don't know
I don't know
How every day
Every day, every day
You save my life
       Every Day - Rascal Flatts 

Three weeks later…

His first day back in the saddle, so to speak.  A training session in the Danger Room for the B-Team and it's gone badly.  Not too badly in comparison to some, I'm sure.  And not for those of us that were supposed to be the ones learning.  But badly for me.

Because he finally snapped.  And I was his target.

I'm not entirely sure why either.  The scenario was one that we've run before, but not actually been in yet.  A bombed out city where our target was an above-ground reinforced building holding mutants in cages, readying them for sales to labs and private buyers around the country.  Only the trainees and instructors were the live players in the training exercise.  Everyone else, mutant captives, civilians and bad guys were all generated by Cerebro.  So it was just us, and we all knew it was just another training exercise.

But at some point, a bomb went off unexpectedly and blasted half of the building away, taking out over three quarters of those mutant captives we were supposed to be rescuing.  I'll admit it, it was my fault.  I fucked up.  I was too busy worrying about him and forgot to pay attention to the trip wire that even a blind man would have seen. 

Oh, I'm paying for it now, though. 

Not only did the blast knock me backwards and sling me over a hundred feet across the room into the wall, but I got cussed seven ways from Sunday by every single member of the team and all of the faculty…except him.  I landed on my butt and cracked my head against a part of a brick wall and sat there trying to get my breath back, and willing my vision to clear while everyone yelled at me.  I think they took turns, but then again I really couldn't tell since my ears were still ringing from the blast of the bomb and they all sounded like they were talking under water.

Feeling my eyes stinging from the acrid smoke and dust from the bomb irritating my eyes, I blink furiously trying to clear them, and am looking around trying to spot him, to make sure I'd not managed to hurt him or anyone else by my inattentiveness.  I spy him standing about fifty feet from me, his customary, of late, inscrutable mask firmly in place as he looks at me.  Listening to everyone give me hell.

"That's enough."

He says it quietly, but the power in those two words quiet the whole room instantly.  In two strides he's before me, grasping both arms in his hands and jerking me to my feet only to push me backwards against the wall.

"Don't you ever do something that stupid again," he hisses at me through his teeth, his face not even inches from my own.  "If you can't be on one hundred percent when you're down here, then next time, stay the hell in your room."  When I don't immediately respond, he gives me a shake that threatens to knock some fillings loose. 

"Y-yes sir," I manage to stammer with a miniscule nod.

He lets me go.  And I just stand there and watch him as he steps back and glares at me before finally growling, "Class dismissed."

Unsure as to what they just witnessed, everyone stands there for a moment as Cerebro shuts down the holographic projection of the bombed out landscape until we're all standing in that odd black and silver grid-patterned room.  It's a dizzying effect if you're not used to it, but that's not why they're all standing there. 

I avert my eyes from them all, ashamed, and move away towards the back of the Danger Room.  And out of his line of vision.  Finally with another stern glare from him, everyone starts to move towards the door and beyond that to the locker rooms to shower and change. 

I follow behind them, hoping to avoid any further confrontation, but my luck must have run out earlier that day and no one told me.  He stops me before I can get through the door by reaching out and punching a button on the control panel.  The door closes with a nearly silent whoosh, and we're locked in together.  Alone.

"Do you seem to think that you're entitled to special treatment or something?"

Surprised by the question and the rage I hear vibrating beneath his words, I look up into the cold mask staring down at me.  "N-no, sir."

"Good.  Because I'm not here to be your friend.  I'm here to teach you how to keep from getting your ass blown apart.  And if that means I'm a complete bastard to you then so be it.  Understand?"

"Yes, sir." I nod, shrinking away from his anger, but that was the wrong move.  He steps forward almost in my face.

"You care to explain just what the hell that was back there?"  He's standing there, his hands on his hips demanding an explanation that I just can't give right now.  So I don't say anything.  Which apparently was the wrong answer too. 

"I'm waiting."

I shrug, trying to look pitiful.  It isn't hard, since that's how I feel right now.  "I don't really know."

"That's not good enough, and you're not leaving until you give me an answer.   So start talking."

I can't tell him the truth.  That he's distracting the hell out of me since I spend so much of my time worrying about him.  That'd be the worst thing I can say.  So I come up with something as lame, yet still true, as I can.  "My mind's someplace else, I guess."

"Well then you need to get your shit together before you get someone else killed.  That or get off the team.  A liability like you is one we don't need and can't afford.  You got me?"

Swallowing hard, I blink back the tears I can't seem to fight off anymore around him, and nod, looking down at the floor.  "Can I go now?"

"Yeah," he growls, punching the button to open the door.  "Get the hell out of here."

I manage to get out of the Danger Room and three steps outside the door before the first sob breaks free.  And then I can't see from the tears flooding my face as they run downward almost like they're in a race with the sobs now echoing in the hallway as I lose my battle against them both.  So I can't see, and can barely breathe.  Big deal.  I don't need to do either to make it to the locker room.  I can do it blind and struggling for air.  And have, after a session that left me with two spectacular shiners and a nice set of cracked ribs once.  All I know is, I have to get out of here before I fall apart completely.  Before he sees it.

But I don't make it halfway down the hallway before he calls out to me.  "Hey."

Something cracks deep in my chest when I hear that.  It's like he's suddenly himself again.  I stop, but I don't look back.  I can't answer him either.  My throat's too constricted.  I just want him to let me go so I can go cry in the shower where no one can hear me. 

But he won't.  Not yet.  God please, don't let him yell at me again. 

I hear him walk towards me and feel his hands on my shoulders through my uniform.  But he doesn't say anything.  He just takes a deep breath and lets it out really slowly.  Like a sigh, but not. 

He exerts pressure on my shoulder, making me pivot so that I turn and face him.  But I refuse to look up.  "Look at me."

"No."

Back leather covered fingers clasp my chin and tilt my face up, and the sight of him swims before my eyes as the tears continue to fall.  I can barely see, but I can make out enough of him to see his mouth twist in regret and…something else.  And before I know it, he's wrapping his arms around me and pulling me close up against him, tucking my head beneath his chin, my nose buried in the opening of his uniform at the base of his throat, against the black shirt he always wears under the leather. 

Shocked into place, I just stand frozen there a minute before I hear him murmur into my hair, which I had foolishly left down during the training session.  That alone is a testament to how much I'm not thinking clearly lately.   "I can't lose anyone else."

Damn but he smells good.  My eyes slide closed, and I raise my arms to wrap them around that narrow waist, holding him tightly to me.  "You won't lose me.  I'm not going anywhere."

His hold on me tightens a fraction and I stop fighting it.  I melt into his embrace, letting my muscles relax almost to the point of bonelessness, until I'm fitted against him almost perfectly.  I feel his chest expand against mine as he breathes in deeply, the leather of our uniforms squeaking as they rub slightly against each other.

I hold on to him like I'm drowning and he does the same.  We stand there and hug in semi-silence, the only sounds around us being the faint echo of the showers in each set of locker rooms starting up.  And still he holds on to me, shifting his arms down a bit to hold me tighter, yet making it easier to breathe at the same time.  I turn my face so that my cheek rests against his chest, and I hear him sigh, as he straightens up, laying his cheek on the top of my head.

After another few minutes, he whispers, "You'd better go on and get cleaned up.  You've got a class in a little while, right?"

I nod, my cheek sliding against the firm, leather clad chest, and I fight a sigh of pure contentment.  "Yeah.  I've got the X-Kids in about an hour and a half, give or take a few minutes," I answer, referring to the youngest set of mutant students.  The ones that range from about six to nine - the ones whose mutant abilities have kicked in earlier than the norm.  I help out with them a couple times a week, just little stuff.  Nothing vital to any particular educational curriculum. 

"What are you teaching them today?"

I laugh softly against his shoulder, loving the feel of his arms around me as we talk.  "The uses of light and color versus pattern and texture.  Now ask me how I'm gonna do that with kids that age?"

I could feel him grin against the top of my head.  "How?"

"Advanced finger painting."

He chuckles a little and I feel liquid warmth spread throughout my whole body at the faint noise.   That's the first sound of anything even remotely happy I've heard come from him since that day on the jet by Alkali Lake.  "Lucky you.  That'll be a sight to see.  Talk about a fiasco waiting to happen."

"Care to join us?  I think I've got an apron that'll fit you."  I pull my head up and smile at him, only to see the ghost of a grin fade from his face, back into that expressionless mask he's been wearing for almost two months now. 

Stupid, stupid, I chastise myself silently.  I shouldn't have pushed.  He's not been around any of the students except for those he runs through training sessions with in the Danger Room.  No place where unwelcome questions or emotions ever come into play.  No place he's not completely, one hundred percent in control of everything around him.  And I know better, damn it. 

"No, I don't think so," he steps away and turns to leave.

But like an idiot, I can't let him go this way.  "I didn't mean -"

"Go get your shower," he almost barks at me.  "Don't blame the training session if you're late."

His shoulders are stiff and rigid as he walks past me down the hallway towards the guys' locker room.  Without a backward glance he pushes the door open and disappears inside. 

My chest tightens up until I can't draw a deep breath without my lungs stinging.  I think I'd rather if he had yelled at me after all. 

It would have hurt less.

-x- 

Sometimes I swear I don't know if I am coming or going
But you always say something without even knowing
That I am hanging onto your words with all my might
And it's alright
Yeah I am alright
For one more night
Every day
You save my life
       Every Day - Rascal Flatts 

It's been nine days since I've seen him.  Since anyone's seen him since that last day in the Danger Room.  I'm just about ready to go to the Professor and ask him to check on him when I see the flash of his jacket near the rec-room door. 

I watch him walk past and I feel that uncomfortable burning behind my eyes, letting me know the tears are going to start again any second now.  He looks so broken.  So defeated.  He's not even paying attention to where he's going, barely noticing as he nearly knocks down a student whose path he stumbles blindly into.

Unable to watch him struggle so lost and alone, I jump to my feet and sprint to the door.  "Hey."

He stops and turns slowly to see who called him, his face still a mask of raw emotion.  Then he sees it's me and the corner of his mouth quirks up just barely.  "Hey."

"Rangers are on.  Wanna watch?"  I jerk a thumb over my shoulder.

He looks around a minute as if he's trying to decide.  On impulse, I reach out and take his hand, tugging on it gently.  "Nobody in here but me, if that's what you're worried about.  Come on.  I'll even close the door." 

He moves forward sluggishly, surprising me.  "Lock it."  His voice is raw and raspy, like he's been screaming for hours and can barely speak.  Maybe he has.

I do as he says, closing and locking the door behind us.  There's no need really.  It's after curfew for the younger kids.  The older ones will be either studying or distracting themselves with each other.  And the faculty won't bother us.  No one bothers me anymore, anyway.  And they've all walked a wide berth around him for months now.  But if he wants me to lock the door, then the door gets locked.

He lets me pull him towards the couch and he falls into the cushions more than simply sitting down.  I move to take the chair nearby and a grunt from him stops me.  "Uh-uh."  He points to the end opposite him.  "Here."

"Okay…" I murmur quietly.  He's never done that before and we've watched hockey together many times in the past.  Of course it was never just the two of us and things were different then.  He was different then.

I barely pay any attention to the game.  I'm more concerned about the man sitting next to me on the couch.  His gaze is trained on the television, but I can tell he's not really paying any attention to it.  Yet, he doesn't leave. 

I don't ask him if he's okay.  Anyone with eyes or a brain in their head can see clearly he's not okay.  I don't bug him, trying to get him to talk about it either.  If he wanted to talk, then he'd just do it.  I simply sit there beside him, and watch the game. 

About thirty minutes into it, he takes a deep breath.  "I'm sorry.  About the other day."

"It's okay."  I answer.  "I deserved it."

He shakes his head.  "No, you didn't.  Not like that.  But I am sorry.  It won't happen again."

Honest to God, I don't know what to say.  He wants something, but for the life of me I can't figure out what it is.  And it's obvious by the set of his jaw that he's not going to tell me either.  So I fall back on my usual pattern of just sitting there and being quiet.

After a moment, he motions me closer, without looking at me.  Unsure what he's asking for, I slide across the cushions to sit next to him.  He reaches out and tugs on a lock of my hair, urging me even closer still.  I curl my legs up beside me, making me lean into him, just a bit. 

That seems to be what he wanted because his whole body loosens up when my shoulder touches his arm.  He lifts it and drapes it across the back of the couch, and on impulse I shift even closer to him, so our sides are pressed against each other. Then I feel his hand on the back of my head, exerting just the tiniest bit of pressure. 

Going with my instincts, and my promise to him of whatever he needed from me he'd have, a deep sigh fills the quiet around us as my head hits his shoulder.  He doesn't move his hand either.  A light touch, barely there, but I can feel him rubbing a few strands of my hair between his fingers before his fingers settle on my shoulder as he puts his arm on the back of the couch.  Without thinking about what I'm doing, I wrap one arm around his middle, and feel him relax even further into the couch cushions as we settle deeper into that loose embrace. 

His fingers move occasionally.  Not in a seductive or restless way.  More like checking to see if I'm really there.  A touchstone.  And maybe that's what I've become to him.  I can live with that.  I'd like to be more, but I'll take what I'm offered.  I learned that a long time ago.  Back when I first realized I was in love with him.

He stays through the whole game, and doesn't make another sound other than the occasional murmur of approval or grunt of displeasure at the game on the television.  I'm almost afraid to move, scared that he'll retreat again.  Granted, he's not come too far out of his self-imposed isolation now, but this…this is better than he's been in a long while.  It gives me hope.

Not for us.   There is no us.

But hope for him.  That he'll be okay.  And one day maybe he'll be happy again.

Ah damn.  Game over.  Rangers five.  Philadelphia three.  There was a time once where he'd be crowing over a game like this.  But no longer.  Now he just nods at the final score, then untangles himself from me, and gets to his feet.  He turns to leave, but looks back down at where I'm still sitting on the couch. 

"Thanks."

Don't go!  Stay with me and let me try to make it better, I want to scream at him.  But I don't.  Instead I smile and nod.  "Anytime."

He nods back and I suddenly reach out to him.  "Wait."

Stopping, he stares down at the floor but takes the hand I hold out towards him.  I don't know what to say.  What I can say.  But he's waiting.  Patiently.  Silently.  His hand warm in mine.  At a loss for words, I just squeeze his fingers, hoping he'll understand what I can't voice.

He seems to.  He returns my squeeze, and then threads his fingers through mine for a minute, rubbing the pad of his thumb against my index finger very slowly.  He squeezes my hand again, then pulls back.  He moves sluggishly to the door, unlocks it, and then stops with it open, his hand resting on the knob.  He looks back over his shoulder at me, no expression on his face. 

"Night."

"Good night," I whisper quietly as he leaves, leaving the door open as he moves woodenly through the hall and towards the staircase that will take him up to his room as the first of my tears begin to fall.

I watch him go, and feel my heart shred itself in my chest. 

This is killing both of us.  

~fin~

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