Three of a Kind, Chapter 4

"Ready to go Paul?" Jean was being determinedly
cheerful as if that would somehow make him happier
too.

"Sure." Paul pushed himself carefully out of the
chair, cradling his braced and bandaged hand. Moving
hurt. Breathing hurt. But his hand didn't hurt much
at all. It was mostly numb and that scared him. Hank
kept telling him it would get better and, after a week
and a half, Paul was still waiting.

"How do the clothes fit?" She asked.

"Fine, I guess." He said, tugging on the ugly button
down shirt. Shit brown wasn't his color. It wasn't
new, neither were the jeans or the shoes, or the socks
but they were all newer than he was used to wearing
and fit better than most things he'd worn. The pants
weren't falling off anyway. Hank lumbered out of his
office to say goodbye and hand over a couple of
bottles of pills.

"This is for the nausea, take it *every* morning.
These are your antibiotics, take *those* every night.
Remember to come back tomorrow, young man, for your -
other medicine."

"'Kay." Paul muttered. He had to come back tomorrow
so he could get his carefully measured hit of
methadone. Dr. McCoy had to order it special for him,
Paul had overheard him complaining about the paperwork
to Jean when he was supposed to be sleeping. He
smiled brightly at Jean, seething. The big blue freak
had finally decided Paul could leave his private
little lab but had put him on a damn short leash.
"I'm ready to go, I guess, Ms. Gray."

The woman didn't look much fooled. She usually
didn't. She was a doctor, like Hank the Disney
escapee but told him to call her Jean. Pretty, he
figured, with all that red hair. Dressed like a porn
star and moved like she could kick your ass without
blinking. He followed her out the big metal doors.

The place was creepy. Half gleaming silver hallways
and sliding doors like Star Trek and then, on the
other side of the elevator, mahogany, dusty sunbeams
and fancy carpets and a bunch of kids running in the
halls. They slowed down when they saw Jean and eyed
Paul curiously. Paul pushed his shades up on his nose
and ignored the whispers he overheard. They were
talking about him. Everyone kept telling him that he
wasn't going to get hurt here and, yeah, some of the
kids he saw were freaky looking but still. He'd heard
those assurances before and didn't believe them now.

"John is going to be your roommate, Paul." Dr. Gray -
call me Jean - said, pushing open a door on the second
floor. "We've got a bed set up and some more clothes
- I think they'll fit. Let Scott know if they don't."

"Scott?" Paul said uneasily. This place looked like
a converted house, like some rich do-gooder had taken
an interest in the 'poor and oppressed'. The room was
pretty big but kind of crowded with two beds, two
desks, two chairs. He could tell which half was his.
A neatly made bed and a pile of clothes. Clean desk,
no pictures on the walls. The other half of the room
looked like a bomb had gone off. Dirty clothes and
scattered textbooks, a bunch of drawings tacked to the
walls. Paul wrinkled his nose. The room smelled like
old socks and burnt paper. "I though you said I'm
staying with some John."

He smiled at his own joke, then the smile faded when
he realized Jean didn't get it. She just - didn't get
it. He sighed and touched his shirt. Things were
going to be real different here.

"Yes." Jean made this little ushering gustier, urging
him past the threshold. She never touched him and
Paul was grateful. It made it easier to ignore the
peculiar way she felt. He stepped unwillingly inside
and sat on the clean bed. "Scott's my husband. He
teaches here - English, Basic Mechanics, some history.
A little mathematics. We live on the third floor,
you can always ask us - or any of the adults - for
help, Paul. For anything."

"'Kay." Paul watched her fidget. She wasn't lying.
Not entirely. But she wasn't telling the truth
either. Husband Scott wasn't just a teacher. She
wasn't just a doctor. He thought about that lab
downstairs and all those tests they'd been running on
him and knew this wasn't some *school*. "So - who's
the headmaster? Who runs the show?"

Jean smiled and Paul was able to feel the affection,
even from her. Usually she was so hard to feel. Not
like Remy, who *did* something to block Paul off but
something about the way she was. She had feelings but
it was hard to get a handle on them. So far, Paul
hadn't been able to push her into doing anything she
didn't want but he was working on that. "Professor
Xavier. He started this school, Scott and I were his
first students. He's been like a father to Scott - "

She broke off, looking for a reaction and Paul
shrugged. "I ain't looking for a daddy. Had plenty
of 'em."

"You look tired." She said quietly, when he didn’t
say anything else. "You can rest until dinner, John
can take you down."

"Alright."

As soon as she shut the door, Paul shoved one of
John's stinky socks under it to 'accidentally' jam it
shut and searched the other kid's side of the room.
Clothes and books, comics, some girlie porn - Paul
shrugged - no money. No dope, not even pot. A little
stash of matches that suggested that there had to be
*something* to smoke around here.

"Shit." Paul sat on his bed, tired already. Nothing.
Not even condoms. Outside it was snowy and sunny and
a blinding haze of rainbows and distorted spots. What
he didn't see past the distant brick wall topped with
old fashioned iron spikes were other buildings.
Skyscrapers, warehouses. There was nothing like that.
He was somewhere far, far away from the city. He
pulled the shade down and lay back on the bed, kicking
his new clothes onto the floor. This place was a
fucking nightmare.

Shoving at the door woke him. Paul went over and
pulled the sock out of the way.

"Hey!" A blond kid pushed his way inside. "What's
with the door?"

"I dunno." Paul said, dropping the sock. "It's your
crap. Guess it got stuck."

"You're Paul huh? I'm John. You're my new roomie?"
And he gave Paul a blinding smile. Blonde and
blue-eyed, maybe sixteen, he was a trick's wet dream.

"Guess so." Paul shrugged but couldn't help smiling
back. The kid was so absolutely good natured, it
rolled off him in waves. He sat carefully back down,
it was almost as good as getting high. John threw
some books on his desk and flopped onto his bed,
stretched and Paul watched his sweater ride up his
pale stomach. Nice body. He'd be Kristoff's new
favorite real quick.

Paul scooted back and leaned against his headboard.
He used to be Kristoff's favorite - until the bastard
tried to kill him. Stared down at his useless left
hand and tried to wiggle the fingers - failed -
again. "So, what's fun around here?"

John glanced at him, gave him another of those pretty
smiles, so innocent looking but Paul felt a wicked
humor underneath. He bit his lip to hide his
answering smirk. Maybe this too pretty kid was more
interesting than he looked.

"Well - TV, school, basket ball. I'll show you
around, if you want. You can see for yourself."

Paul snorted. "Not talking about all that teacher
approved, rubber stamped kinda fun. Y'know.
Something real."

John sat up and peeled off his orange sweater. Paul
tensed.

"Well -" John leaned over and dug the matches out
from his mattress. He lit one and stared, hypnotized
at the flame. Paul scrambled off his bed, opposite
John and backed away. His blue eyes refocused, seeing
Paul's worry. "Uh- you're not afraid of fire - I
hope. God, that would suck."

"Nope. Just not into burning stuff up, especially me,
okay?"

"Don't worry. Not going to burn you - going to burn
me!" John *grinned* and set fire to himself.

"Fuck!" Paul yelled, jerking back, wrenching his half
healed side. The fire just *exploded* over his chest.
John was just smiling and smiling like a nut and -
Paul blinked - there was no pain. None at all. If
anything, John was flying. Paul felt his warm joy and
watched the way the fire clung to his naked skin, gold
and blue and orange and hypnotic. The room started to
get warm as the fire blazed like a crown over John's
head. His eyes were still a clear blue. "Shit -!"

An alarm went off and John flinched, then the fire
blinked out. He hurriedly pulled on his sweater, just
as someone knocked - heavily - on the door. "John -
no fires inside the house!"

"Yes, Mr. Summers!" John called through the door,
rolling his eyes at Paul. Smoke was curling up from
his shoulders. "It was an accident. I'm sorry."

The footsteps went away. John sat cross-legged on his
bed and leaned towards Paul. "So, what can you do?"

"What?"

"Y'know. What kind of mutation do you have?"

"You mean, what kind of freak am I?"

"Hey - " John expression flickered, briefly sad with
understanding. "You aren't a freak. None of us are
freaks. Not here."

"Sure." Paul said irritably. He was starting to
hurt. "That's what they tell you, anyway.

**********************************

Scott came back in shaking his head. He sat back down
across from Jean and pulled her feet back into his
lap. "We've got to find something for that boy to
do."

Jean smiled. "He's just showing off. John's not as
emotionally mature as Bobby."

Scott's head bent over her feet, rubbing just
*perfectly*; easing the pain in her arches, thumbs
rubbing patiently over the balls of her feet. The
late winter sunlight reflected off his glasses. "If
you didn't wear those heels, you're feet wouldn't hurt
so bad, you know."

Jean stretched her toes, Scott tweaked one, smiling to
himself. "I like my heels -"

She wiggled her foot between Scott's legs, toes
squeezing his crotch. His breath hitched and his
smile widened to include her. "- and I'm not the only
one. And if my feet didn't hurt, would you still rub
them?"

Scott wasn't exactly fighting her off, he wrapped one
hand around her ankle. "I'd rub you anywhere -
anytime -"

He slid his hands up her calves and he moved to kneel
between her legs. One hand slid up her skirt, he
massaged her labia through her panties as he kissed
his way up her thigh. Jean sighed and let her head
fall back, staring at the ceiling while she got wetter
and wetter. And he'd hardly started. They'd been
lovers since the day Scott turned eighteen and he
still could set her off with nothing more than a smile
and a touch.

"I'll keep that in mind the next time I have give a
six hour lecture to Congress - ah."

Scott snickered against her thigh, tugging on her
knees to bring her to the edge of the chair.
"Couldn't get arrested, not in the chambers."

"Mmhmm - shut up, Scott."

He'd pushed all the way up and bit her gently through
the thin cotton of her panties. Jean pushed up,
clutching suddenly at him at the dull prick of his
teeth through fabric. She felt him tearing them
carefully off and moaned softly, muscles deep insider
her vagina clenching eagerly.

"God - want you so much - ah, no - not *now*!" Jean
complained at the abrupt touch of Charles' mind on
hers. He withdrew like he'd been burned, leaving
nothing but a request that she come to his study -
now. Scott's fingers stilled and he lifted his head
from her with a resigned curse. Evidently the
professor had called Scott as well.

Jean pulled on new underwear while Scott cleaned up
and they headed downstairs. Jean smoothed her
husband's hair with a telekinetic pat at the last
minute.

"Think he - um - knew?" Scott asked hopefully.

"Oh, yeah."

"Right. Well - into the breach then." He said,
opening the door.

"I wish." Jean murmured and grinned as Scott went
suddenly, brilliantly red.

Her humor faded at the sight of Logan and the thief,
Remy. Logan was leaning against the windowsill as if
he thought he might need to make a quick exit. He'd
dusted off his old training and Jean couldn't read a
thing. Remy was chain smoking, Jean watched him light
another cigarette from the stub of his last one and
smoke hung heavy in the little room. Remy's mind was
it's usual quicksilver self, as impossible as Logan's
in an entirely different way. Charles was - furious.

"Professor?" Scott said carefully. Telepath or not,
he knew his foster father's moods. Xavier jerked his
chin at some chairs.

"Sit, please. We have an - issue to resolve."

Logan rolled his eyes. "Christ, Wheels, just spit it
out already. Don't want t'spend the rest of my life
in here."

Remy had tucked himself into a chair was practicing
being invisible. Something had set both of them off,
something they'd brought to the Professor to handle.
Charles glared harshly at Logan.

"What's going on?" She asked. "What's the problem,
professor."

Charles pushed some paperwork around on his desk and
closed his eyes, visibly gathering his temper. Jean
glanced worriedly at Scott, it had been years since
she'd seen him so angry. Scott's face was
expressionless and tipped slightly towards Logan and
Remy. Watching them, she realized. He knew where the
trouble was.

"When we sent Logan and Remy to contact Paul they -"
Charles stopped and took another deep breath.

"- things went wrong." Logan interrupted in something
like mercy. His voice was flat, eyes expressionless,
as if he was reading a report. As if he'd taken an
emotional walk, leaving nothing but an echo behind.
"The kid was gonna bolt, we took him to a room t'talk.
And, somthin' happened. Remy thinks the kid's got
something like his empathy. Something set Remy's
charm off - the kid figured we were hiring him for
sex and - we fucked him."

"Fucked - " Scott. "Sex? You had sex with Paul?"

Logan' s head jerked, a nod. Remy was staring fixedly
at a corner of the professor's desk and hadn't said a
word. Jean watched the tip of his cigarette tremble.
Even now, stomach sinking into a sick dismay, she
wondered what he was feeling from everyone around him.
What it was like to share the emotions in this room
now. Evidently unpleasant, as he tucked his arms
around his stomach, mouth a thin, straight line.

"I can't believe it." She whispered, glancing at
Charles. Maybe it wasn't what it sounded like - what
else *could* it be? Charles had his damage control
expression on.

"Both of you." Scott said flatly. "You - we -
wanted to rescue the boy - god! Paul's a kid! A
*child*! For god's sake - Logan!"

The Canadian's Adam's apple bobbed suddenly. "Yeah.
He's a kid, Scott. I molested a kid. I got it
already."

Scott threw himself out of his chair and paced,
staying well away from the other two. His voice rose
until he was shouting. "Right. Wonderful. Now we
know why Paul's so mistrustful. He has damn good
reason! We're supposed to be the good guys!"

Jean could hear the agonized betrayal in his voice.

Remy closed his eyes, thin face going pale beneath the
dark glasses he always wore. "Remy leave."

"What ?" Several voices chorused. Logan' s loudest.

"Remy leave here, he bring not'ing but trouble on
you." He said in a small voice. "De fault's mine.
De charm - made Logan do it."

Scott stared at the Cajun, fists clenched, practically
trembling with fury.

"Well, it would be much easier to simply leave now,
wouldn't it?" Charles said quietly. "And very much
your style, I believe, my friend."

Remy's head snapped up. "Remy no friend of yours,
homme! He no friend of anyone! Dat's obvious!"

"Knock it off, Remy." Logan snapped. "We ain't gonna
get out that easy. Told ya that. And I ain't no
puppet. I got fault here too."

Charles smiled briefly. "So, what will we do?"

Scott was still glaring at Logan. "Hell - "

He broke off and everyone sat in silence of a long
moment. Jean closed her eyes and rubbed her temples,
head aching. What were they going to do? They
couldn't turn Logan and Remy over to the police - that
was one thing they'd promised Charles years ago. A
promise made in memory of the Eric who'd learned how
the world worked in Nazi concentration camps. They'd
never turn a mutant over to human authority. And
never kill. There was no where else to send Paul, no
other refuge for him but a place where two of the
adults he was supposed to trust had picked him up off
the street and molested him.

"I'm not interested in punishment, Scott." The
professor said, glancing sharply at her husband.

"My god, we can't just let it slide!"

"No. We have to find a way to regain Paul's trust.
That we truly mean to help him."

"He told Hank he was - almost - seventeen." Jean
said, wondering if it meant anything. Half the things
Paul said were lies. And even if it was true, did it
matter?

"That doesn't matter, he was someone vulnerable - why?
God, Logan - you - I'd never imagined you could -
what were you thinking!" Scott broke off.

Logan shrugged. "Wasn't thinking, Slim. Was - hell -
was practically a damn compulsion!"

"Remy - your charm. Could it have gotten so out of
control - how would it cause you or Logan to respond
that way?" Charles brought the conversation back to
what he'd decided was important.

Jean curled her legs under herself and watched the
thief. He'd never been willing to explain his powers
to anyone. Now, things were going to change. The
thief lit another cigarette.

"De charm - makes people hungry for Remy. Sex,
usually but somet'imes other t'ings. Some good. Some
bad. W'ant him, always."

Charles looked up sharply. "Always?"

Remy's chin dipped briefly. "Always. Since Remy
remember, de charm was der. Not somet'ing he grew
into, like de charge. De em'pathy and de charm always
der."

"That must have been - very difficult."

Remy shrugged. "De boy - feel him, real strong. Den
I touched him - de charm go off. Hit Remy like a
brick. Needed - needed touch. Bad. Real bad. Paul
- he need to, could feel it, couldn't say no. Don
know why it go like dat. Don know why - but dat boy,
he *want* so bad. Couldn't say no."

"We tried to talk to him - afterwards - " Logan
finished. "Didn't go for it. Gave him a card - and
he stole all the money we had."

"How much do you think Paul has in common with you,
Remy?" Charles asked. "Could he have a similar -
charm?"

Remy tipped his head. "Could be. But - you all be de
one's to know. How much you want de boy, when you
near him? How bad you w'ant to touch him, eh?"

Jean flushed. She'd felt - something - around Paul.
She'd chalked it up to some spasm of maternal instinct
- now she wasn't sure. Did it come from insider her,
or inside Paul? "He has hollow bones. As I recall
from the last time you broke your leg, Remy, so do
you. Double joints, some other minor physical
abnormalities. Your eyes. And - he's similarly
difficult to read. But he's been drugged or
unconcious most of the time he's been here."

"Your empathic gifts?" Charles wondered. "We may
need to help Paul control his gifts - and we'll need
your help to do so, Remy."

The thief stared hard at the professor.

"If you leave now, you'll be leaving Paul to struggle
- alone - like you did with your gifts until you
learned to control them." The professor's eyes were
level and unyielding.

"You w'ant Remy to help wid Paul?" He sounded
stunned. "After w'at he did? W'at kind of sense is
dat?"

Charles frowned. "The kind of sense that puts
actually solving the problem over lashing out in
anger. Yes, I want your help. I want you to speak
with Hank about your gifts, permit him to do some
investigating. Paul is ill, physically, aside from
the psychological consequences of his life. Perhaps
you can help Hank and Jean come up with some answers."

Remy bowed his head. "Remy don have answers,
professor, but he try. He help - any way he can."

"Good." Charles nodded and looked rather pleased.
His voice gentled. "That's all I ask. We must all
help each other - there's no one else who will, after
all."

TBC