sickle_stories (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sickle_stories) wrote2007-10-29 05:35 pm
sickle_stories) wrote2007-10-29 05:35 pm
Entry tags:
Toad fic: After Liberty Island
This is set just after the end of X Men Movie 1. I've always been quite pleased with this, particularly because I often don't care a rat's ass about Scott. Yes, my obsession with aphasia began early, and yes, I own that shirt. The basic premise of this part (Toad's not dead but desperately needs medical attention) was quite popular back in the day. In case you don't remember why Toad ain't a happy camper at the end of the film, it's because he's so dead.
Scott limped down the hall towards the door, silently cursing whoever was knocking so insistently at such an unholy hour — checking his watch proved that the hour wasn’t so unholy, but he cursed anyway. The battle atop the Statue of Liberty had taken place two days before, and everyone still suffered the pain of their healing wounds. Well, everyone but Rogue, Scott mused with a soft smile. He’d never admit it to anyone, but he’d been wrong about Logan. The crazy Canadian had really shown him up.
He winced as the knocking started again and called out a gruff, "Coming!" He sighed; finally some quiet. As he forced his aching limbs to cross the last few yards, his thoughts wandered from the annoying (sorry, ‘mysterious’, as half the girls in the school would say) newcomer who was quickly recovering, thanks to Jean, to another who also, until recently, had been lying inert in the medical ward. He was more relieved than he could ever express at the Professor’s recovery. He shuddered to think what would be of him, of the X-men and the Professor’s students, if anything should ever happen...
Casting his unwelcome thoughts aside, Scott ran a hand over his hair, praying that his mottled bruise didn’t show too much, and opened the door. On the doorstep stood a young woman, roughly his age he judged, nervously cracking her knuckles. Scott cast a habitual glance over her, looking for weapons but finding only that she was clothed in a thin summer dress and a man’s jacket, which she clung to fiercely with one hand. "Yes?"
She didn’t say anything, just stared at him with wide eyes (green, he noticed, with curious golden specks), her throat working. Her free hand stretched out to him, palm upwards, shaking slightly. Scott glanced down at it, noticing the small half-moon imprints of her nails. Locking eyes with her again, he asked gently, sincerely, “Can I help you?” The woman showed no sign of having heard him, apart from a slight twitch of her eyebrows. Her black hair fell over her eyes as she bowed her head for an instant. She let go of her jacket and wrung her hands, looking up at him again, her eyes shining with tears. Her throat worked again, viciously, as she stamped her feet nervously and extended her hands towards him again. Scott heard a low moan escape her.
Finally understanding her silent plea, but not knowing what exactly she was asking, Scott took her hands in his (they were so cold!) and spoke softly to her. "Shh, what it is? It’s ok, you’re safe. What’s wrong? Do you want to come in? Jeez, you’re all wet; you must be so cold..." His voice drifted to nothingness when he realized she wasn’t responding. He knew she’d heard him, she was staring at him right in the eyes with such intensity—like when Jean had first practiced moving objects—but she wasn’t saying a damn word, or nodding or anything. No sign of having understood… Was she deaf perhaps? Concerned and a bit unsure as to how to deal with the stranger, Scott squeezed her hands again and repeated his questions.
He was interrupted by the Professor speaking softly into his mind: "Let her in, Scott. I’m in the library." Giving a slight nod, which the Professor could not see, though its intent was clear to the telepath, Scott backed up into the mansion, pulling slightly on the hands he held. "Come in, please. Come talk to the Professor." The woman cocked her head, confused, until he motioned her in and smiling slightly, pulled her gently in.
She followed him down the hall to the library. Upon seeing the Professor, and Scott’s inviting gesture for her to continue, she froze. Staring alternatively at the Professor and Scott, her mouth opened slightly and her lips twitched, as if she was trying to say something, but all that came out was a low whine. She gestured to her mouth quickly, then wrung out her hands again, until the Professor called her to him. She turned but did not move, (ah, not deaf then, thought Scott) until he gestured to her and patted the sofa beside which he sat. Immediately she scuttled over and, hesitating only for an instant, sat down before him. Again she parted her lips and struggled to say something, but all that came out was that same whine.
The Professor watched her carefully. Her legs twitched nervously and her hands clawed the air, as if trying to grasp something that was evading her. Both the Professor and Scott jumped when her low whine erupted into a yelp that fell back to a low moan. The Professor placed a hand over hers, stilling her nervous clawing, attracting her attention so she stopped shaking and looked up at him, pleading for…something. With a glance from the Professor, Scott quietly left the library.
***
Sneaking quietly into his and Jean’s room, not turning on the light on the off chance that Jean had listened to him for once and was asleep, Scott tiptoed towards the closet. As he neared the bedside, he squinted in the darkness and managed to see the empty bed and its crumpled sheets in the moonlight. He smiled quietly to himself: she had slept, finally, though she hadn’t bothered to turn down the sheets.
Scott was worried about Jean, probably more so than was good for him. Because, he thought as he turned on the bedside lamp, she was a doctor for a reason. She worried about people too, enough to stay up for hours on end working her backside off to save their lives. Though on this occasion, it didn’t help that the lucky patient was the so-called Wolverine. Not that he’d ever suspect Jean...
Rubbing his neck, Scott shrugged his thoughts off and opened the closet door. He rummaged about for a moment, forgetting what it was he was looking for as his fingers passed over Jean’s favourite shirt. He was the only one who knew about it. And with due cause, he chuckled, as his fingers traced the wolf that crouched, grinning under a sheepskin, as it mingled with stupidly staring sheep. It was one of the few things that had withstood the test of time and age, as it had been bought when Jean was younger. And more carefree. Now, she hardly ever wore it.
Finally remembering what he’d come for, he reached towards the back and pulled out one of the rich beige blankets. Scott straightened up with a stiff groan—god was he ever tired—and tossed the blanket onto the bed. With a sigh, he eased himself down on the bed—just for a second, he muttered—to ease his aching limbs. He wondered absently what was wrong with the stranger, though he figured the Professor would be able to tell him soon. She was asking for their help, he could figure that out.
He sighed deeply, saddened by the large number of mutants that knocked on the mansion’s door in similar conditions. When would this fear and segregation end? He closed his eyes and, shifting his glasses to his forehead, rubbed then absently as he waited for news from the Professor. Soon enough, though much too soon for Scott, the Professor called him back, the urgency in his psychic voice clear. Just as he was reaching for the bedroom door, he heard Xavier chuckle softly in his head. Don’t forget the blanket, Scott.
***
Scott entered the library cautiously, trying to make no noise. He’d stopped outside the door for a moment, but hadn’t heard the pair speaking, though he was sure they were inside. He walked to the girl, blanket hugged to his chest, and stood beside her quietly. Her eyes were closed, and her hands were clasped in those of the professor, who also had his eyes close. Scott sighed quietly: Ah, good ol’ mindreading.
Too tired to worry, he was just about to turn to a chair to ease his aching back — was there any part of him that didn’t ache? — when the professor spoke up softly. "We’re done for now, Scott. Hand her the blanket." The girl accepted it gratefully, wrapping it about herself and hanging onto it tightly. Scott noticed that she still wore the jacket: it and her dress had already dripped a small puddle at her feet. He winced at that: the library floor was one of the few rooms with its original wood floor.
"Have a seat, Scott, while we wait for Jean: she’s on her way."
"Professor?"
But the professor shook his head slightly and closed his eyes, thinking hard. Scott cast his glance to the girl, who’d finally stopped shivering and was staring at the puddle at her feet, toeing it slightly. Her hands still held a death-grip on the blanket, or one of them did; Scott wagered that the other hand was still clinging to the jacket.
He sighed again. Why did all the runaways have to have a mental crisis at their doorstep? Not a month went by without a near-insane child wounding up at the school grounds. He dropped his head into his hands and carefully rubbed his eyes. He was just too tired now to think clearly, too drained by recent events, worrying over the professor, and over Jean worrying over the professor — he was all out of worry. He knew he wanted to help this girl, just like he’d always wanted to help all the other runaways that came their way (and a few who didn’t, not at first, at least), but he also knew that what he wanted more, right now, was another aspirin and a soft pillow.
He started when a warm hand settled on his shoulder. "Which one of you is the patient?"
Scott looked up with a smile into Jean’s face. She still looked tired, but much more in command of her mental facilities that he at the moment. He nodded towards the girl, but before she could move towards her, the professor spoke.
"Neither actually, Jean."
Something in his tone worried his two former students, and Jean settled down on the couch besides the girl, reaching a tentative arm on her shoulder. The girl ignored the gesture and instead stared at the professor in what could only be described as silent pleading. The professor nodded to her, smiling reassuringly, then leaned forward and addressed the other two. "It has been difficult understanding this girl’s predicament: she seems to have lost the ability to speak in a sudden onset of aphasia." He glanced at Scott, clarifying, "No understanding of the concept of language, broadly speaking."
Scott’s brow furrowed and Jean uttered a soft 'oh'. "A sudden onset?" she asked.
"Yes," replied the professor, "Precisely how this has happened I’m not too clear on, but that is not the matter at hand. I’ve gathered from her mind—a confusing mix of images—that there is a man at the docks. He is badly injured, a mutant, and so she came to us."
Scott’s back straightened with a pop and he winced. "Which dock?" he asked, all thoughts of exhaustion dissolving away with the need to act.
"I’m not certain—close by, that’s for sure, but I think our young lady must guide you there."
"How badly is he injured, Professor?" said Jean as she stood up, already running an inventory though her head of possible extra first-aid necessities.
The professor closed his eyes for a moment, then whispered, "He is stable...conscious as well...in pain...burnt, as well as other injuries." He opened his eyes and added, "He’s also been in the water for more than a day, and exposed to the elements on the docks for longer."
Jean nodded and stood up, crossing the room quickly to get the appropriate supplies. She turned at the door for a moment. "Garage, fifteen minutes tops."
Scott nodded absently, his mind on such matters as: how long does it take to drive to the nearest dock? What time is it — for that matter, what day is it — and will that affect traffic? What’s the best route? How is what is basically a deaf-and-dumb girl going to tell them where the man is? He directed this last question to the professor. He shrugged and gave a smile.
"I should think it’s quite obvious, Scott. She’ll drive." At Scott’s sputtering shock, he added, "She’s quite capable of doing so, Scott. She’s not a child."
Scott had to leave it at that. He stood up and offered a hand to the girl — or, if one was counting by driving ability, young woman — and asked the professor if she knew what they were going to do. An answer wasn’t really necessary, if to judge by the gleam in the girl's eyes as she ignored his proffered hand and rushed to the door.
Scott was about to follow, thinking that Jean probably had all her paraphernalia ready by now and would be making her way to the garage, when the professor rolled towards him with a serious look. "Scott," he began gently, “you must promise to bring this man back with you, for proper medical care."
"Of course, Professor," Scott answered, then shifted and looked his mentor in the eye. "Why do you think I wouldn’t?" he said sternly. It was not that Scott was insulted by the professor’s suggestion that he would act so callously, but rather that he knew when the professor was hiding something (well, most of the time, anyway), and this was one of those times.
The professor sighed. "He is one of Magneto’s people, Toad by name. I’m sure you remember him."
"The one with the gooey spit?" asked Scott incredulously. "And you want me to bring him here?"
"He’s dying, Scott. Or close to it." The two men locked eyes for a moment then Scott bowed his head in understanding. Helping first; there’d be time for judging later. Besides, he was the last living member of the Brotherhood, apart from Magneto — long may he live in that plastic cell, thought Scott bitterly — and he might be able to tell them something new.
With that, he turned and strode quickly to the door and disappeared down the hall to the elevator, the girl at his heels. Jean better be cool-detached-and-professional-doctor about this, or she’ll have my hide, mused Scott as he pressed the elevator-button. And the professor’s too, I bet, for not telling her.
Scott limped down the hall towards the door, silently cursing whoever was knocking so insistently at such an unholy hour — checking his watch proved that the hour wasn’t so unholy, but he cursed anyway. The battle atop the Statue of Liberty had taken place two days before, and everyone still suffered the pain of their healing wounds. Well, everyone but Rogue, Scott mused with a soft smile. He’d never admit it to anyone, but he’d been wrong about Logan. The crazy Canadian had really shown him up.
He winced as the knocking started again and called out a gruff, "Coming!" He sighed; finally some quiet. As he forced his aching limbs to cross the last few yards, his thoughts wandered from the annoying (sorry, ‘mysterious’, as half the girls in the school would say) newcomer who was quickly recovering, thanks to Jean, to another who also, until recently, had been lying inert in the medical ward. He was more relieved than he could ever express at the Professor’s recovery. He shuddered to think what would be of him, of the X-men and the Professor’s students, if anything should ever happen...
Casting his unwelcome thoughts aside, Scott ran a hand over his hair, praying that his mottled bruise didn’t show too much, and opened the door. On the doorstep stood a young woman, roughly his age he judged, nervously cracking her knuckles. Scott cast a habitual glance over her, looking for weapons but finding only that she was clothed in a thin summer dress and a man’s jacket, which she clung to fiercely with one hand. "Yes?"
She didn’t say anything, just stared at him with wide eyes (green, he noticed, with curious golden specks), her throat working. Her free hand stretched out to him, palm upwards, shaking slightly. Scott glanced down at it, noticing the small half-moon imprints of her nails. Locking eyes with her again, he asked gently, sincerely, “Can I help you?” The woman showed no sign of having heard him, apart from a slight twitch of her eyebrows. Her black hair fell over her eyes as she bowed her head for an instant. She let go of her jacket and wrung her hands, looking up at him again, her eyes shining with tears. Her throat worked again, viciously, as she stamped her feet nervously and extended her hands towards him again. Scott heard a low moan escape her.
Finally understanding her silent plea, but not knowing what exactly she was asking, Scott took her hands in his (they were so cold!) and spoke softly to her. "Shh, what it is? It’s ok, you’re safe. What’s wrong? Do you want to come in? Jeez, you’re all wet; you must be so cold..." His voice drifted to nothingness when he realized she wasn’t responding. He knew she’d heard him, she was staring at him right in the eyes with such intensity—like when Jean had first practiced moving objects—but she wasn’t saying a damn word, or nodding or anything. No sign of having understood… Was she deaf perhaps? Concerned and a bit unsure as to how to deal with the stranger, Scott squeezed her hands again and repeated his questions.
He was interrupted by the Professor speaking softly into his mind: "Let her in, Scott. I’m in the library." Giving a slight nod, which the Professor could not see, though its intent was clear to the telepath, Scott backed up into the mansion, pulling slightly on the hands he held. "Come in, please. Come talk to the Professor." The woman cocked her head, confused, until he motioned her in and smiling slightly, pulled her gently in.
She followed him down the hall to the library. Upon seeing the Professor, and Scott’s inviting gesture for her to continue, she froze. Staring alternatively at the Professor and Scott, her mouth opened slightly and her lips twitched, as if she was trying to say something, but all that came out was a low whine. She gestured to her mouth quickly, then wrung out her hands again, until the Professor called her to him. She turned but did not move, (ah, not deaf then, thought Scott) until he gestured to her and patted the sofa beside which he sat. Immediately she scuttled over and, hesitating only for an instant, sat down before him. Again she parted her lips and struggled to say something, but all that came out was that same whine.
The Professor watched her carefully. Her legs twitched nervously and her hands clawed the air, as if trying to grasp something that was evading her. Both the Professor and Scott jumped when her low whine erupted into a yelp that fell back to a low moan. The Professor placed a hand over hers, stilling her nervous clawing, attracting her attention so she stopped shaking and looked up at him, pleading for…something. With a glance from the Professor, Scott quietly left the library.
Sneaking quietly into his and Jean’s room, not turning on the light on the off chance that Jean had listened to him for once and was asleep, Scott tiptoed towards the closet. As he neared the bedside, he squinted in the darkness and managed to see the empty bed and its crumpled sheets in the moonlight. He smiled quietly to himself: she had slept, finally, though she hadn’t bothered to turn down the sheets.
Scott was worried about Jean, probably more so than was good for him. Because, he thought as he turned on the bedside lamp, she was a doctor for a reason. She worried about people too, enough to stay up for hours on end working her backside off to save their lives. Though on this occasion, it didn’t help that the lucky patient was the so-called Wolverine. Not that he’d ever suspect Jean...
Rubbing his neck, Scott shrugged his thoughts off and opened the closet door. He rummaged about for a moment, forgetting what it was he was looking for as his fingers passed over Jean’s favourite shirt. He was the only one who knew about it. And with due cause, he chuckled, as his fingers traced the wolf that crouched, grinning under a sheepskin, as it mingled with stupidly staring sheep. It was one of the few things that had withstood the test of time and age, as it had been bought when Jean was younger. And more carefree. Now, she hardly ever wore it.
Finally remembering what he’d come for, he reached towards the back and pulled out one of the rich beige blankets. Scott straightened up with a stiff groan—god was he ever tired—and tossed the blanket onto the bed. With a sigh, he eased himself down on the bed—just for a second, he muttered—to ease his aching limbs. He wondered absently what was wrong with the stranger, though he figured the Professor would be able to tell him soon. She was asking for their help, he could figure that out.
He sighed deeply, saddened by the large number of mutants that knocked on the mansion’s door in similar conditions. When would this fear and segregation end? He closed his eyes and, shifting his glasses to his forehead, rubbed then absently as he waited for news from the Professor. Soon enough, though much too soon for Scott, the Professor called him back, the urgency in his psychic voice clear. Just as he was reaching for the bedroom door, he heard Xavier chuckle softly in his head. Don’t forget the blanket, Scott.
Scott entered the library cautiously, trying to make no noise. He’d stopped outside the door for a moment, but hadn’t heard the pair speaking, though he was sure they were inside. He walked to the girl, blanket hugged to his chest, and stood beside her quietly. Her eyes were closed, and her hands were clasped in those of the professor, who also had his eyes close. Scott sighed quietly: Ah, good ol’ mindreading.
Too tired to worry, he was just about to turn to a chair to ease his aching back — was there any part of him that didn’t ache? — when the professor spoke up softly. "We’re done for now, Scott. Hand her the blanket." The girl accepted it gratefully, wrapping it about herself and hanging onto it tightly. Scott noticed that she still wore the jacket: it and her dress had already dripped a small puddle at her feet. He winced at that: the library floor was one of the few rooms with its original wood floor.
"Have a seat, Scott, while we wait for Jean: she’s on her way."
"Professor?"
But the professor shook his head slightly and closed his eyes, thinking hard. Scott cast his glance to the girl, who’d finally stopped shivering and was staring at the puddle at her feet, toeing it slightly. Her hands still held a death-grip on the blanket, or one of them did; Scott wagered that the other hand was still clinging to the jacket.
He sighed again. Why did all the runaways have to have a mental crisis at their doorstep? Not a month went by without a near-insane child wounding up at the school grounds. He dropped his head into his hands and carefully rubbed his eyes. He was just too tired now to think clearly, too drained by recent events, worrying over the professor, and over Jean worrying over the professor — he was all out of worry. He knew he wanted to help this girl, just like he’d always wanted to help all the other runaways that came their way (and a few who didn’t, not at first, at least), but he also knew that what he wanted more, right now, was another aspirin and a soft pillow.
He started when a warm hand settled on his shoulder. "Which one of you is the patient?"
Scott looked up with a smile into Jean’s face. She still looked tired, but much more in command of her mental facilities that he at the moment. He nodded towards the girl, but before she could move towards her, the professor spoke.
"Neither actually, Jean."
Something in his tone worried his two former students, and Jean settled down on the couch besides the girl, reaching a tentative arm on her shoulder. The girl ignored the gesture and instead stared at the professor in what could only be described as silent pleading. The professor nodded to her, smiling reassuringly, then leaned forward and addressed the other two. "It has been difficult understanding this girl’s predicament: she seems to have lost the ability to speak in a sudden onset of aphasia." He glanced at Scott, clarifying, "No understanding of the concept of language, broadly speaking."
Scott’s brow furrowed and Jean uttered a soft 'oh'. "A sudden onset?" she asked.
"Yes," replied the professor, "Precisely how this has happened I’m not too clear on, but that is not the matter at hand. I’ve gathered from her mind—a confusing mix of images—that there is a man at the docks. He is badly injured, a mutant, and so she came to us."
Scott’s back straightened with a pop and he winced. "Which dock?" he asked, all thoughts of exhaustion dissolving away with the need to act.
"I’m not certain—close by, that’s for sure, but I think our young lady must guide you there."
"How badly is he injured, Professor?" said Jean as she stood up, already running an inventory though her head of possible extra first-aid necessities.
The professor closed his eyes for a moment, then whispered, "He is stable...conscious as well...in pain...burnt, as well as other injuries." He opened his eyes and added, "He’s also been in the water for more than a day, and exposed to the elements on the docks for longer."
Jean nodded and stood up, crossing the room quickly to get the appropriate supplies. She turned at the door for a moment. "Garage, fifteen minutes tops."
Scott nodded absently, his mind on such matters as: how long does it take to drive to the nearest dock? What time is it — for that matter, what day is it — and will that affect traffic? What’s the best route? How is what is basically a deaf-and-dumb girl going to tell them where the man is? He directed this last question to the professor. He shrugged and gave a smile.
"I should think it’s quite obvious, Scott. She’ll drive." At Scott’s sputtering shock, he added, "She’s quite capable of doing so, Scott. She’s not a child."
Scott had to leave it at that. He stood up and offered a hand to the girl — or, if one was counting by driving ability, young woman — and asked the professor if she knew what they were going to do. An answer wasn’t really necessary, if to judge by the gleam in the girl's eyes as she ignored his proffered hand and rushed to the door.
Scott was about to follow, thinking that Jean probably had all her paraphernalia ready by now and would be making her way to the garage, when the professor rolled towards him with a serious look. "Scott," he began gently, “you must promise to bring this man back with you, for proper medical care."
"Of course, Professor," Scott answered, then shifted and looked his mentor in the eye. "Why do you think I wouldn’t?" he said sternly. It was not that Scott was insulted by the professor’s suggestion that he would act so callously, but rather that he knew when the professor was hiding something (well, most of the time, anyway), and this was one of those times.
The professor sighed. "He is one of Magneto’s people, Toad by name. I’m sure you remember him."
"The one with the gooey spit?" asked Scott incredulously. "And you want me to bring him here?"
"He’s dying, Scott. Or close to it." The two men locked eyes for a moment then Scott bowed his head in understanding. Helping first; there’d be time for judging later. Besides, he was the last living member of the Brotherhood, apart from Magneto — long may he live in that plastic cell, thought Scott bitterly — and he might be able to tell them something new.
With that, he turned and strode quickly to the door and disappeared down the hall to the elevator, the girl at his heels. Jean better be cool-detached-and-professional-doctor about this, or she’ll have my hide, mused Scott as he pressed the elevator-button. And the professor’s too, I bet, for not telling her.