Three of a Kind, Chapter 5
 

Cold.  Paul hauled the blankets up and stared out at
the rainbow glitter of falling snow, shivering.  His
stomach cramped again and he hissed through clenched
teeth, curling around himself, waiting as long as he
could before climbing out of bed and hurrying to the
bathroom.

"Fuck - fuck - fuck."  Paul locked the bathroom door,
fingers shaking.  He knew it wasn't that cold, it was
just because the god dammed blue doctor had decided it
was time to start stepping the methadone down again.
He'd told Paul, hadn't bothered to *ask* if Paul even
wanted to detox, and expected him to be fucking glad
about it!   Leaning over the toilet, heaving until
tears streaked his face, Paul cursed Dr. 'my stars and
garters'.  The bastard wasn't the one on his knees
tonight.  The shaking got worse, when the puking was
done, and it took Paul a while to make it back to bed.
 John was sitting up, waiting, when he came back.

"S-sorry."  Paul muttered, climbing back into bed and
pulling the covers up to his chin.

"Hey - it's okay."  John rustled around and padded
over to Paul.  "Hey - shit - you look really sick.
Lemme call Scott or Hank.  Come on -."

"Fuck that!"  Paul hissed, twitching.  This wasn't the
first night he'd woken his new roommate up because he
was jonsing.  "Fuck them.  You think they care?  You
think they don't know?  Shit - it's that blue fucker's
*fault* that I'm sick."

"You're sick because you're going off dope."  John
dragged his blanket off his bed and spread it over
Paul.  "Hank's trying to help."

"Yeah.  Help me my - my ass.  Does it look like he's
f-fucking help-ping me?"  Paul closed his eyes as
another bout of shaking hit him.  "Just so damn cold
-!"

"Let me get Scott."  John bent over him, staring
curiously at Paul's eyes.  "He won't mind."

"No - no!"  Paul managed to roll over, grabbing John's
hand before he could leave.  He didn't want to go back
down to the lab.  He didn’t think he could handle the
lights and the cold and the doctor hovering over him,
poking and prodding. "God, please - they can't do
anything anyway!  Please - I'm sorry I woke you up.
Really, I'm okay.  It's g-getting better."

John snorted and looked down at him, white moonlight
bleaching his hair to silver.  Paul hung on to his
wrist, sharing his worry.  He didn't even know this
guy and the kid was worrying about him like - he
cared.  It felt good.  Someone paying attention to
him.  Someone he could touch.  He wanted that more
than he wanted the dope he wasn't getting.  All the
dope had ever been was something to fill up the ache
anyway.

"I'm j-just cold.  John -"  Paul murmured and tugged,
very lightly on his wrist.  He was trying to make John
do what he wanted.  "Thanks for your blanket but -
you're going to get cold now.  C'mon -"

The other boy blinked, looking sleepy and a little
dazed.  A little more dazed than he had a moment ago,
before Paul started talking.  "I - never get cold."

"I do.  I get cold a lot.  You're lucky, never getting
cold."  Paul was barely whispering now.  John probably
couldn’t even tell what he was saying but it wasn't
important.  He felt him relax.
"You could get under the blankets too."

"Sure."  John shrugged and yawned.  Paul scooted
eagerly aside and gave him room to climb in.

"You better not get any funky ideas, okay Paul?"  John
hesitated at the last minute, Paul brushed his
fingertips over the back of his hand.

"Uh-uh."  Paul muttered.  "I'm just cold."

"Okay."

John lay uncomfortably next to him, then drifted off.
When he was half asleep, Paul snuggled close and John
rolled against his back, holding him.  It felt so
good.  He could press his back to warm skin and feel
someone else's heart beating.  John was warm and alive
and *liked* him.  Paul's breath hitched and he blamed
the tears on withdrawal.  He didn't want friends.  It
would hurt more later if he made friends.  But it felt
so good.

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

Predictably, Paul was testing his authority by being
late.  Charles sipped his tea and watched the children
playing outside in the fresh snow.  It was nearly
Christmas time, some lucky students were going home to
their families.  Far to many, like Paul, had nowhere
else to go.  No home besides his.  So, there was a
Christmas tree in the main living room and a menorah
on the mantle.  Jean, Scott and Ororo had been sent on
several trips to the city for a gift for every child.
They couldn't give them a safe world, not yet, so they
gave them what they could.

There was a knock at the door and the distinctive
slippery mental signature that both Remy and the young
man shared.  Which answered some questions about the
thief, as well as the boy.  It was not some special
training, like Logan's, that gave them protection
against his telepathy.  It was some natural
characteristic of their minds and that was
fascinating.

"Come in, Paul."  Charles folder he'd been studying
away.  Thick with Hank's notes, it  went over the
young man's body in detail but didn't give him much
insight into their new student's mind.  "Why don’t you
pull the drapes for me."

"'Kay."  Paul said, as if it didn't matter but Charles
could see the sudden tension in the slender shoulders.
 A small smile came and went.  He tried to dip into
the boy's mind and the quicksilver thought he caught -
unpleasant demands hidden behind office doors and
official appointments - left Charles wishing they'd
found this boy much earlier.  Of course he expected
more of the same.  No one had given him any reason to
change his opinion.

Paul flopped down on the couch, pulling a knee up and
stretching in such blatant invitation that Charles
nearly laughed.  And was, he realized, attracted.  Was
that due to some gift Paul had, a 'charm' or simply
because he was beautiful; young and dark haired, tall
and slender with lovely hands.  The kind of young man
he'd been attracted to when he was a young man.  "I
thought you might like to get rid of those glasses for
a while.  It this dim enough to be conformable?"

Paul flushed and gathered himself together abruptly
when he realized the drawn curtains weren't to hide an
illicit sex act.  "Yeah, guess so."

He pulled off his glasses, startling eyes darting
nervously around the study.  They were heavily
shadowed, Paul looked exhausted, gaunt and his hands
trembled slightly.  Hank was very concerned about
Paul's general health and was stepping down the
methadone therapy as quickly as he dared.  Methadone
was, unfortunately, more toxic than the heroin Paul
was addicted to - but it was legal.  Charles couldn't
risk having his school shut down on drug charges.

"So, you're the headmaster here, huh?"  Paul started
to jiggle, flipping his glasses from hand to hand.

Charles rolled around his desk, impulsively deciding
to remove some of the official distance between them.
He could practically see the way Paul's teeth gritted
at any hint of authority figures.  "What do you
think?"

Paul rolled his eyes.  "Great, you're a shrink too.
Figures."

"Well, I have a psychology degree, yes.  The Academy
is named after me, yes.  What else?"

"Huh?"

"What else do you think I am?"

Paul looked hard at him and Charles tried to be as
open, as aware as possible.  He'd tried this yesterday
with Remy and still he couldn't tell when the Cajun
was using his so-called charm.  He knew the feel of a
mental attack, knew when someone was sneaking into his
thoughts but how do you tell if someone is
manipulating your emotions?  Remy had gotten him to
add the thief's name to the school's bank accounts
before he'd ended his little exhibition.

"Bald."  Paul said with a smirk.  "I think you're
bald."

Charles chuckled.  "Rather bald, yes."

"And -"  The young man's eyes narrowed.  "I think
you're a rich white man - a freak who can hide in the
herd - and I think you see what it's like for - for
people like me and you feel guilty.  So you go scrape
the shit out of the gutter so you can say you got your
hands dirty."

It was like being stabbed.  The worst, nastiest
interpretation on the drive that had cost him his
family, his friends and his health.  And not entirely
untrue which only made it hurt more.  He couldn't look
at Paul, shame rising like nausea in his throat.  He
stared out at the brightly snowy yard and focused on
the voices of the children - the future.

When he could look back at Paul, he was pressed as far
back in the couch as he could get and his face was
twisted with misery.  "Oh - um.  I - I'm *sorry.  I
didn't mean it - shit. "

"No?"  He asked calmly.  This child is also the
future, he reminded himself.  Charles realized that
what he'd seen on Paul's face in that painful moment
had been an echo of his own shame, his own pain.  He
let out a slow breath.

"No.  It's - it's the jones.  Man - you're pet doctor
is stepping me down too fast!"  Paul complained.  "I
didn't even ask for it and he's got me on this crap -
makes me sick as a dog."

"Methadone is supposed to prevent withdrawal
symptoms."

Paul gave him a sour glance out of one red and black
eye.  "Sure."

Charles studied Paul, watching him fidget and flinch.
Still so very thin, his arm still braced, so full of
hostility.  He wanted to somehow prove that Paul was
safe here - and he wanted to touch him.  Charles
folded his hands in his lap. "Have you spoken to Dr.
McCoy about it?"

Paul shrugged.

"He can't help you with this if you don't tell him
it's not working for you."  Charles said milady.  Paul
only shrugged again.

"So - what are you, then?"  He asked.  "If I'm a
hypocrite, what are you."

"A whore."  Paul said bluntly.

"Ah - what else?"

"A junkie.  A freak."  Paul glared at him, his voice
climbing.  "Some slut.  A juvie.  At risk youth.
Worthless punk!  Thieving brat!  Mutie!  Shit - leave
me alone!  What the hell do you want from me?"

"Hope."

"What?"

Charles leaned forward, staring hard at Paul.  "I want
hope from you.  I want you to find the hope buried
under all those words and all those ignorant people
who spoke them.  I want your hope.  For the future."

Paul shook his head slowly, drawn for a moment out of
his own misery.  "No - no way.  What good is the
future for me?  You think I got one?  You think you're
gonna *save* me?  You think you're the first to try?"

"I can't save you."  Charles said with a sigh.  "Only
you can do that.  I can only - try to get my hands a
little dirty beside yours and perhaps we'll find the
future together."

Paul chewed on his lip.  "I'm sorry.  I said I was
sorry.  Really - "

"There's nothing to be sorry for, except perhaps a
lack of judgment."  Charles shook his head and tried
to believe is own words.  "You're remarkably  -
perceptive.  Do you know what empathy means?"

Paul shrugged but he stopped flipping his glasses and
his eyes drifted warily away from the professor's.
"Mean's you understand what other people are feeling,
I guess."

"Mmm.  That's sympathy.  Empathy is *sharing* what
others feel."

"'Kay."  Paul had gone as blank faced as card shark.
Charles was reminded, strongly, of Remy.

"Do you - feel - what I feel, Paul?"  He asked softly,
trying - and failing - to reach that suspicious mind
with his own gifts.  "Really feel it."

The youngster licked his lips, eyes darting away then
back again.  There was real terror in them. "H-how do
you know?"

The professor leaned back in his wheelchair and tried
to be reassuring.  It was sad to see the boy so
terribly frightened of his natural gifts.  "Remy -
also *feels* what others do.  You and he seem to have
more in common than your unique eyes."

Paul jerked his face aside.  "I haven't seen Remy - or
the other guy around.  I saw him downstairs in the -
lab though."

"We thought it might be better if you had some time to
- adjust -  without them around."

"Oh, shit!"  Paul looked at him, wide eyed.  "You
know!  You - know?"

"They told me."

"Shit!"  Paul suddenly jerked upright.  "You didn't
kick them out, did you?  It wasn't their fault!  I
can't believe they fucking told you!  But - honest - I
mean, I knew they didn't want to - not really.  It was
just - just -"

"Just what?"  Charles pressed.  "They're both adults
and knew better.  I know Remy was very upset by what
happened."

"Just - it was an accident."  Paul mumbled.  "Y'know.
I mean - I thought - and I don't need no one saving
me!  That's all - I didn't' want them coming by to
*save* me like I was some little kid.  Someone who
couldn't take care of himself."

"Did you - influence - them to have sex with you?"

Paul tucked hands between his legs and stared at his
shoes.  "Guess so."

"Surely you'd know."

"Doesn't  - always work like that."  Paul sighed and
shrugged to himself.  "I - dunno - sometimes things -
just happen.  When he touched me - Remy touched me -
shit!"

Charles watched Paul fidget uncomfortably and gathered
that the boy was finding the memory arousing.  He
turned his attention politely to the window until Paul
collected himself.

"Anyway - " Paul hurried on.  "I must've done
something.  They - sure as hell didn't want me.  Not
for real."

"Just because someone isn't sexually interested in you
doesn't mean they don't want you - or like you.  And
you must know that sex doesn't mean someone does want
you."

Paul snorted, shrugged and finally nodded.  "Guess
so."

"If you know what I'm feeling.  Can *sense* it.  Don't
you feel that my desire to help you - everyone's wish
to help you  is real?  That there isn't some hidden
price tag?  Paul - can't you sense that?"

"Works better if I can touch - "  Paul said
hesitantly.  "Everything works better if I can touch."

Charles held out his hand.

Paul's fingers were long and graceful and trembling
with tension as he wrapped a hand around the
professor's.  He watched those remarkable eyes fill
suddenly with tears, nearly wept himself as Paul
clutched his hand and cried.

TBC