Comatose-Book 1

Part 6

The car ride to the school had been filled with silence. Logan had tried to strike up a conversation on several occasions, but you weren't having any of it. You were content to stare out the window, trying to figure out what went wrong. How could you have been better?

It was a strange sensation.

Your mind was a mess of thoughts, mostly bad, but it was as if your heart had detached itself. You felt nothing.

Flashback:

"(Y/N)." Logan's gruff voice sounds behind you.

You turn and fling your arms around his neck, breathing in his scent. "You're back," you whisper into his neck. Happiness sings in your veins with every beat of your heart.

He walks you backwards, and sits you down on the couch. Kneeling in front of you, he grabs your hands, and stares you dead in the eye. "It's Jean."

You deflate. Happiness flees as quickly as it came. With the smile slipping off your face, you nod. "You're leaving me," you state plainly.

Surprise covers his features. "How did ya know?"

You snort. "I know you, Logan. I'm not blind. Just answer one question for me." You take a deep breath. "Did you sleep with her while we were together?" He flinches at the question

"No. I wouldn't do that to ya. I love ya."

You laugh in earnest now, the sound hollow and full of anguish. "You love me? Not enough apparently."

Present:

Gravel crunches underneath your shoes as you make your way into the mansion. Duffle bag slung over your shoulders, you steel yourself to meet your brother. It has been years since you last laid eyes on him.

Sighing as you enter, you come face to face with the man who raised you. Who had showered you with affection when your parents had overlooked your existence. While you hadn't aged, he certainly had.

"Charlie," you greet, "It's been a while, you look well," you acquiesce.

"(Y/N) welcome home," he replies, his usually stoic features marred by a frown. "We have set you up in one of the spare bedrooms for the time being." He gestures to the stairwell where Storm is waiting to escort you to your temporary lodging. "You may begin training with the others as soon as you feel up to it."

You nod and reply, "I'd like to start tomorrow, I've been out of action for too long." He looks at you searchingly.

"I was hoping we would be able to talk tomorrow. We have much to discuss."

You recognise the tone, it was one he had used on you many a time, and inwardly roll your eyes. "Of course, Charles. Lunch?" you inquire. He nods in agreement.

"I will send Storm to collect you at 12."

You move toward the stairwell tipping your head in acknowledgement of Storm, effectively dismissing yourself from your brother's presence. Following along like a ghost, you forgo speaking with the woman as memories, long locked away, fill every corner of what used to be your home. Images of playing with Charles in the parlor you pass, or on the stairs you climbed, seem to be imbedded in the very wood and stone. When Storm finally stops before a heavy wooden door, you gave a distracted smile of thanks, walk through, and fall face first on the bed. You're drained and want nothing more than to sleep until you wake.

But sleep comes fitfully., Images of Bucky and Logan keep morphing into one your mind. You couldn't discern who was who anymore, and it left you reeling. You knew you were loosing the grip you had on your mind, but you had little inclination to do something about it. It's as if any morality and feeling you once had, has retreated into a dusty corner in your head. It was refusing to come out.

Mentally checking yourself, you move out of bed. Making your way to your bags you pick out the least crinkled items of clothing you can find and head to the shower. Thanks to your restless night, you'd overslept and had maybe 30 minutes before Storm would arrive to escort you to the dreaded lunch with Charles.

Stepping underneath the spray, you reflect on the last week of your life. This is such a mess, you muse. The dull echo of hopelessness flares momentarily in your chest, causing you to frown. There is a whisper, a voice inside your head that echos briefly, finally loud enough for you to hear one name.

Bucky.

Your movements stall, confusion flowing through you. Straining your senses you try to zero in on the voice, but it's already retreated and you find nothing. Shrugging it off and chalking it up to stress, you step out of the shower and finish dressing just as a knock sounds at your bedroom door.

Following Storm throughout the vast Mansion, you reach Charles's private quarters much too quickly for your liking. You weren't quite ready to face what resided on the other side of that door. Thanking Storm politely, you enter the luxurious rooms, following the heavenly smell wafting from behind a door

"Charles," you murmur moving toward him as he maneuvers his wheelchair to face you.

"Good Morning. Won't you sit?" he asks.

You take the proffered seat, making yourself comfortable in the plush chair.

"Are you going to tell me why you really didn't want me to train today, Charlie?" you ask getting right to the point, reaching for a pastry from the tray in front of you.

"You are unstable, (Y/N)," he replies.

"I'm aware. But I am not Jean," you reiterate for what feels for the hundredth time. "And if you start comparing us again I'm leaving." There was only so much living one could do, when that living was done in the shadow of another.

He sighs. "I made a mistake with you, I admit. I felt that your power was so similar that you must have the same limits," he snorts out a laugh, one filled with contempt for his past mistakes.

"Yes, that was always the problem wasn't it? I was in her shadow and you were the one who put me there. Jean was everything you wanted me to be, Charles and when I didn't measure up, you dismissed me. You pushed me out of my home, made me feel inadequate. I lost everything." It's a fact. There was no way around that, and what forgiveness he seems to be looking for, you're not sure you have it in you to give.

"I know," he simply says. "And I am sorry." He looks out the window before he continues. "If you afford me the privilege of starting anew, I wish to help you." His piercing blue eyes boring into yours. "I wish to correct the mistakes of my youth. I am not immortal as you are. I will not live forever, and I wish to have a relationship with my sister before my time comes." He reaches across the table to take your slack hand. "Please, let me help you. Let me love you as a brother should."

As you contemplate his words, you can feel the sincerity radiating off him. He wants this. He wants to try, and if you're honest with yourself, you admit to missing him terribly these last years. Perhaps forgiveness is as easy as saying yes.

That disembodied voice floats through your mind again. With it, only one word:

Bucky.

Charles's expression morphs to neutral, but not before a flicker of fear passes over it. It sobers you. He's worried. And that worry is aimed at you. Did Jean also walk this path? Did she descend into madness, into this numb, empty place before she turned?

Grabbing the orange juice, you pour two glasses, offering him one. As you clink your glass against his, you simply say, "To new beginnings." If he wished to try, you would let him. He was the only family you have left.