Work Text:
Walking Wounded
by Scorpio
Jean-Paul Beaubier was a first class prick.
He was prickly, arrogant, aloof, and rude. He strutted about with a sneer on his face and snarky comments falling from his lips. Cold and distant, the codename `Northstar' was a perfect fit.
Scott was almost pathetically grateful for his presence and his bad attitude.
Simply put, Jean-Paul didn't treat Scott like a cripple that needed coddling.
He was just as nasty and short tempered with Scott as he was with everyone else. That was a welcome change to the sad looks, soft touches, and gentle handling that he got from everyone else. His wife, his team, his friends…they were all so fucking understanding and helpful that he wanted to scream. Jean-Paul was perfect for that, because he screamed right back.
He was also willing to spar with Scott. And he needed it badly; both for his rehabilitation and his volatile temper.
Hank had finally given the go ahead on his surgery and removed his left arm. Total amputation up to the shoulder. Then, Scott had spent a bit of time in the Shi'ar healing device that they'd moved from the mansion in Westchester. That meant that Scott's stump was perfectly healed.
All that was left were the adjustments. Physically. Mentally.
Easier said than done.
His balance was all off now and he constantly felt as if he was going to tip over. That meant that even walking was different now, let alone fighting. That's where Jean-Paul came in.
He met Scott in the gym every day like clockwork instead of adding his voice to those that were insisting he `take it easy'. They jogged around the track. They lifted weights, which was a whole new ballgame with one arm. They did katas and stretching exercises. And finally, they sparred.
Scott got his ass kicked all over that gym. Repeatedly.
Little by little he was getting better. Slowly. Painfully. But the progress was there.
It was amazing in a chilling sort of way how different things were now that he only had one arm. It was so much harder to do anything, especially to fight. His balance was off so he stumbled a lot. His defense was slow and sloppy because he had to think things out in advance. Muscle memory was no good. He had to retrain his brain as well as his body.
His offense tended to seesaw back and forth between barely passable and nonexistence. He still had one hellava right hook, but…the rest of it was coming to him slowly.
Through it all he wanted to scream, to cry, to rage, and to just say `fuck it' and walk away. Jean-Paul never let him slack off. He never let him give up. He was the perfect physical therapist.
Which meant that Scott spent half his time wanting to blast the guy through the walls with his optic beams and the other half thinking the world would be a better place with more people like Jean-Paul in it.
Then there was everyday life outside of the gym. Scott was truly amazed at how often he tended to need the use of his left hand. He was also appalled and alarmed at how often he forgot he no longer had a left hand to use.
Putting on socks one handed? Awkward, but doable. Buttoning up his shirt and zipping his jeans one handed? Impossible. Jean had to literally help him dress each morning.
Oh, he'd figure it all out eventually. He knew that. But it was a slow, painful learning process. One that left him walking through a world filled with looks of pity and horror. The worst was when he saw those looks in the mirror.
The team wasn't in any better shape and he needed to get his act together enough to start dealing with that.
Bobby was missing in action still. It was presumed that he had been captured during the raid on the mansion and was currently locked up in some mutant concentration camp. All signs seemed to indicate that the same had happened to X-Factor and Gen-X.
Gambit and Wolverine were roaming around the United States wrecking havoc and trying to stay under the government's radar while digging up information on that. He knew that he needed to find a way to tighten the leash on the two most independent and dangerous X-Men, but he couldn't help but feel a bit of vindictive glee at the thought of those two loose canons leaving a trail of destruction in their wake.
The government had earned a pissed off Wolverine and scheming Gambit targeted at them. Scott just hoped they found what they were looking for in the process.
Storm was still with the Fantastic Four.
Thankfully she was healing up nicely from her injuries. She was acting as a contact point for Gambit and Wolverine as well as helping Sue Richards and Ben Grim organize the flood of mutant refugees that were desperate for a way out of the country. Scott had to give credit where it was due, Storm was one formidable lady. She has somehow managed to bully the Hellfire Club into helping with the logistics of shipping hundreds of panicking refugees across seas from her sick bed.
Rogue was keeping busy working with Alpha Flight trying to monitor and enforce peace with the flood of mutants looking for political asylum in Canada. He wasn't surprised that they wanted to snap her up. Her calm head and incredible powers made her an asset to any team. She'd already saved several lives by chasing off mutant hating groups or military platoons that were trying to capture the running mutants.
Both Jean and the Professor had finally recovered from the battle at Westchester and were working hard trying to coordinate both relief and combat efforts in the States. They were also acting as an information relay point. They had been running X-Force ragged and had even sent several freelancers on assignments all across the country.
They had even been sharing intel with Magneto when he wasn't busy drowning sailors. All those deaths at his hands was a bitter pill to swallow, but at least the Navy had finally slowed down their efforts of chasing ships full of fleeing mutants.
Warren had escorted Betsy to Muir Island.
He promised that he'd return as soon as she was settled and he'd taken care of some legal issues for Worthington International. Scott tried not to get annoyed about that. Warren had hundreds of employees depending on him, so it wasn't right to begrudge him the time needed to get things set up for them.
Hank was working crazy hours with a team of doctors that specialized in mutations. They were doing examinations and treating injuries of all the new immigrants flooding Canada. Thankfully, most of it was simple things he was dealing with. Exhaustion, minor dehydration, malnutrition. Bruises and bumps were common. A few cuts and abrasions.
Every now and then, a true medical emergency arrived in desperate condition and Hank disappeared for hours…maybe days as he helped some poor unfortunate to survive.
Hank McCoy was the Canadian media's darling.
Everyone was doing what they could for the war effort or for the refuges. Everyone was working themselves to the bone. Everyone was doing the right thing.
He was not being abandoned now that he was crippled. He wasn't. He told himself that over and over again.
That was easier for his head to believe than it was for his heart.
Mostly, he felt helpless and restless and so fucking angry that it wasn't even funny.
He hated feeling helpless. He wanted to do something, anything, to just fix at least one of the problems that were quickly turning reality into a non-stop nightmare. He wanted to find his missing people, heal Betsy, and have everyone smile at him. He wanted to feel confident and in control.
Damn it! He wanted to be able to zip up his own fucking jeans by himself!
Open a stubborn jar of pickles…
Hug his wife…
Anything that would mean he still had a left fucking arm.
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