Scott sleeps for about four hours, before a sharp cry has him
sitting bolt upright, hands going to rip the tape from his eyes
before he remembers where he is and what's happening. He puts his
forehead on his knees, struggling to learn how to breathe normally
again, the panting enough to make him feel lightheaded.
"Pete...Pete, are you there?" he can't hear you...and his head
tilts to the side, trying to pick out any noise. The CD ended
hours ago, not to be turned back on. Just the *dripdrip* of the
tap in the bathroom, and his voice drops, frightened. "Jack?"

"I'm here. No - no. Pete, not Jack," returns the undeniably
English - and rather sleepy - voice, from the kitchen chair in
which he'd been dozing lightly. His Tom Clancy book lies with its
spine shamefully broken, facedown on the table, next to the
ashtray with is like a snapshot of the progression of time. But
this is all invisible to Scott, except for the faint odor of
tobacco smoke an opened window was unable to completely disperse.
"Calm down, mate, you're all right. Let's get you up and walk
around a bit..." Creak of chair, footsteps.

Scott lets out a few shuddering breaths, nodding his head as he
takes your hand and struggles to get up. "Ah...fuck. Pete, I need
help. My fingers..." are pretty swollen, as they have been. He
never did set them properly. For some reason, it seems to hurt
more now than before, maybe because the last of the PCP was still
coursing through his system. His mouth is pressed together
tightly, bracing for the hurt if you go ahead and do what needs to
be done.

Eyeing the hand with a certain amount of annoyance - not taking
care of broken bones, even if you're on disassociatives half the
time, is something there's really no excuse for - Pete takes it
and peers critically for a second, then gently probes it, looking
for roughly where the breaks are. Which will hurt a lot. "...need
to be x-rayed, Summers. I've had paramedic training, but I'm not a
bloody doctor. The hand's got a ludicrous number of bones in, and
you don't want me fucking with it or you'll have to hide your hand
all the time like Radar does on M*A*S*H."

Scott was using the pain as a reminder that he was seriously
screwing up. Now he just wants to get it fixed, and can't see
going to the hospital while still filtering PCP through his
bloodstream. "Right," he gasps softly, before he sinks back to his
knees and just sits there. Don't make him move just yet, he's
struggling to deal with the bright blossom of pain that has become
his right hand. Hitting walls is a bad idea. But it was better
than hitting Ray again.

"Right," agrees Wisdom, businesslike, then not quite so
businesslike as the end of his word turns into a yawn. "You ready
for some food yet, boyo? Soon as you've got something in you, and
I'm satisfied you're down from the valium..." The Englishman's
voice takes on that demandingly authoritative tone he's gotten
infamous for as he finishes, "...we're going to the emergency
room." Pete sighs, wandering back kitchenward to make with the
frying. "Your hand is sodding well broken, innit? When were you
going to tell me? You realize if it's begun to heal, they're going
to have to re-break it?"

Scott evaluates the state of his stomach, and nods, sightless.
"Yeah, a fried egg and cheese sandwich would go over great...with
oreos and a milk chaser." All of which he thinks he has the
ingredients for. "And yeah...I almost hit a friend, chose the wall
at the last minute."

As for the rebreaking, he knows..even if he doesn't really want to
think about it overlong. Pain is pain right now.

"The friend would've been better for your hand," notes Pete drily;
the comfortable sounds of absolutely normal cooking fill the area,
finally. Sizzling butter, cracking eggs; the applause sound of
frying eggs, the popping sound of sausages thrown in the pan
alongside. And the smells join in, added to by the aromas of
subtly silent toasting bread, melting cheese, and...okay, the milk
doesn't smell, which is good. If it did there'd be issues. "Why'd
you hold off going to the emergency room? They don't test your
blood for a broken bone, and I'd think you could've held off
prolonging your trip for the amount of time it takes to set and
wrap a hand." His tone's not accusatory, just curious. Scrapey
spatula sounds. "Over? Sunnyside up? Easy, medium, hard?"

Scott would grunt, but that's really uncouth, and not like him
under normal circumstances. "Medium, if you could," he answers the
last question first. "And it had nothing to do with a trip, bad or
otherwise...I don't have a reason that's not going to sound
utterly moronic right now." and he feels embarrassed that it's
coming into question. "I don't trust them at the emergency room.
Especially with me having to wear the shades."

Pete Wisdom is uncouth! He doesn't grunt, though, just answers
with an "Mmm." Medium. No preference as to over or sunny, so he
defaults to over, and the sizzling continues. The toaster pops,
and after a second there's the scraping sound of toast getting a
nice slathering of butter. Wisdom, you see, is a firm believer in
cholesterol. "You haven't really got a choice. Well, there's
always a choice," amends Pete, "but in this case it involves the
possibility of permanently losing full use of your hand if you
don't let me intimidate potentially bigoted doctors into helping."

Scott doesn't like that. He plays the guitar, after all. So with a
wince that can't be seen behind the tape over his eyes, he nods,
again an action you probably can't see. "I want it fixed,
Pete...but there was a problem of going it alone. I didn't have
anyone to help me fend off the overeager, and it would have been a
mess if they'd made me take the glasses off." Partially true, as
it stands. He'll leave the part about deliberate suffering unsaid,
because it would sound dumb in the least.

No, it wouldn't. It would be particularly ill-received in this
case, in fact, as Pete doesn't get on well with the idea of
martyrs. "I won't keep at for you it, but I've got to say you do
all right with snarling. And that's all it takes, a good snarl."
He pokes some more at the sausages, which pop, and the potatoes
and onion bits, which sizzle happily. And then he scoops the lot
of it onto a plate and pours Scott a new glass of juice. All of it
goes on the table, and the Englishman wanders back over to help
Scott up. "Give us your good hand, mate."

Scott reaches up with his good hand, trusting you to keep him in
one piece. "I don't think I snarl all that well," he says softly.
And he doesn't, under normal circumstances. He gives orders,
that's what he's best at, but he doesn't snarl to do it. He's just
going to have to find that ability within himself, and do it
without needing the visor to hide behind.

Grinning, and it's audible, Pete replies frankly as he lifts
Scott. "Drugs magnify what's already in you, good bad and
neutral." So damn blunt. "You've got a temper, Summers. You've got
a temper, and you've got the voice to go with it. All you've got
to do is learn to let it out in a controlled fashion. You can
bloody well snarl; I've heard you do it." Leading the blindfolded
man to the table and putting his hand on the back of the chair, he
heads off to make himself some breakfast. "It's not a sin."

Scott listens to the words, letting them roll over him, and he
stands there for a moment, good hand on the back of the chair and
really thinks about what Pete said to him. He's always been
Xavier's 'Good Son'. He's always been the one that did what he was
told, and carried out his adoptive father's wishes without really
voicing his own opinion. It's hard to /have/ your own opinion when
you live with a powerful telepath that might disagree. Finally, he
sits in the chair, reaching forward carefully so that his hand
doesn't end up in his plate, and finds his fork. He's got good
coordination, or he'd end up wearing more than he gets in his
mouth, but it's just something else that he got good at through
ease of long practice. He remains silent, wondering if you would
say anything more. And control is what he's all about, and has to
learn to do without, if you hadn't already figured that part out.
It began when he lost the need for wearing the shades and the
visor, and rapidly disintegrated into the drugs, which he might
well have turned back to without Angelus helping, but now he's got
to find himself again, and it's like getting to know a perfect
stranger.

Glancing back a couple of times to see how Scott's doing, Pete
continues to work at his own breakfast. Sizzle, sizzle. The
popping open of a bottle of beer. Finally, Wisdom says quite
casually, "You dream quite a bit, mate. Bad ones. You know nothing
said in this house is leaving it, right?"

Scott smiles, taking the attitude of joker, because he has no idea
what Pete is talking about. He never remembers his dreams, though
he knows that everybody has them. "I should hope so, this /is/ my
house, after all, it'd be damned embarrassing if certain things
got out." Maybe he'd be a little more serious if he knew where
this was going. Scott ignores the sound of a popping tab. What
good would it do to let that bother him. His hand slides out,
trying to find the glass that he figures must be there. He makes a
face upon taking a drink. Great, more cranberry juice.

Forgive the pubcrawler. Wisdom drinks pitchers of beer with his
eggs in the morning when dining out, after all. His eggs stay
sunnyside up, and he's leaving his sausages in until they're
nearly black. "If you like, I can mix it with a bit of orange.
Taste better that way." A beat. "Listen, about your dreams...the
name 'Jack' mean anything to you?" He knows it does. He -knows- it
does. But there's no better way for him to phrase it - only worse
ones.

Scott misses the table when his glass slips free of nerveless
fingers. He /dreams/ about Jack? A shudder ripples it's way up his
spine, and he can practically feel the blood draining from his
face. "Shit. I'm sorry," he says, about the glass. If he were
thinking any more clearly, he'd be less apologetic, and more
angry, but even Jack's name has the ability to unhinge him. He
really doesn't want to pursue this, but knows that Pete is like a
terrier, somehow Scott /knows/ this about Pete, and once on a
topic, he won't leave it alone until he has an answer that
satisfies. "I...I guess that it depends on how much you really
want to know about me," he answers, finally.

"'S fine," replies Wisdom, scooping his breakfast onto a plate,
then moving off to clean up the spill and the shards before
eating. "And I'll tell you, it'll only benefit your recovery to
get it out in the open, whatever it is. So it depends on how much
you want me to know about you." Wisdom -can- be like a terrier,
yes. He's intel. He's done interrogations as well as been subject
to them, and has been taught a reasonable amount of psychology -
which is why he's making everything Scott's decision.

Scott wants to take the blindfold off, and to meet Pete's eyes,
but he can't. Somehow it makes unearthing these skeletons that
much harder, rather than easier, but he has to start somewhere,
and maybe Pete is right. Maybe speaking of these things will help
exorcise them once and finally. "My powers manifested themselves
when I was fifteen, but I had no off switch, no way to control
them. I was afraid, and until then had spent most of my formative
years bouncing between orphanages." Now he wishes he had a drink
to at least try and wet his throat, which seems to have gone bone
dry. "I didn't have anyone to turn to, and the first person that
found me was a man named Diamond Jack. Could I please have another
drink, I'll even take it straight if I have to."

The sound of running water immediately follows Scott's request,
and then Pete takes Scott's hand and puts the glass in it. "Give
you a break," he says gently. "And try to keep eating. I know it's
difficult." A beat. "Diamond Jack."

Scott nods, then takes a deep drink of water, to try and wet his
throat. "Diamond Jack, who's method of keeping me under control to
help him plan out bank heists, high-security interrupts and other
less than legal activities was to keep me hopped up on drugs. You
see...this isn't really something I'm new to. Just a different
flavor." But that's not the worst of it, and Scott isn't looking
for pity. That much shows in his expression, what can be seen of
it, and the way his jaw muscles clench around what he's about to
say. "But he'd...use me, while I was high. I couldn't stop him, or
he'd make it worse, really make it hurt."

Bringing his breakfast to the table and setting it down, Wisdom's
chair slides back; he sits, listening quietly as Scott talks. "I'm
sorry," he says, honestly. And it's all he -can- say.

Scott's expression twists, and he does exactly what he said he
wasn't good at, he snarls. "I don't /want/ you to be sorry." The
words drip with acid anger, expressly why he doesn't share what
happened with very many people. He has this unreasoning desire to
break things, and so the glass is put on the table, and his hands
go behind his back where nothing is going to break, aside from his
pride. "I'm not asking for your opinion, goddamn it, you asked for
the truth."

"You snarled!" exclaims Pete, genuinely pleased. "Go on, mate.
Don't mind the psychology, it's nothing personal." He takes a bite
of breakfast, then begins the process of fishing out a cigarette
and lighting it.

The statement is just enough to jar Scott out of his momentary
rage, and he's left feeling just a little more hollow, some of the
anger purged. He inhales deeply and lets it out slowly, before he
reaches out with his good hand and make a stab at finishing his
breakfast. He doesn't apologize, because he really doesn't know
what to say. "I killed him," he says, between bites of sausage, as
anticlimactic an ending as he can manage. Jack really twisted him
up, and he got his, but he still feels that he slipped away
relatively unscathed for hurting too many people. "And Charles
Xavier took me from the police after two months in blind hell,
while they continued the trend that Jack began. Charles had to dry
me out, but he cheated."

Taking a massive drag off the cigarette, and exhaling away from
Scott, then washing it down with a healthy swig of beer, Pete both
breakfasts and listens. Two things that've always gone well
together. "Cheated. Erased it from your head, did he? Or blocked
it?" he guesses. Then he adds in a cranky mutter, "Chuckie's never
quite understood why it ain't a good idea..."

Scott shrugs rather helplessly. Charles never did tell him exactly
how it was done, just that, "I didn't need them any more. Just
like that. Two days of withdrawals, and then nothing at all. I
kept waiting for the axe to drop, and instead he had me studying
things like physics, which was fine, because it gave me plenty to
think about, other than the trackmarks on my arms." Scott finds
the glass and takes another drink, letting the silence draw out.
"So...there you have it. And that's what Jack means to me."

"So the mental withdrawal's got you thinking about it. Fair
enough. Hopefully, your talking about it will have got it off your
chest enough so's you can dream something else," says Pete
casually, evenly. He sits back in his chair, working on his food
and his vices. "And hopefully, your working through this on your
own will let you get past it." He doesn't, for now, mention the
fact that his own dreams have never gone away.

Scott doesn't know if he'll ever be past Jack, but he doesn't say
that. It's not easy, when you remember things as though your mind
were a video recorder. His expression, even without his eyes to
add to it, give the truth to the doubt that he feels, but he takes
the last of the water, before he says anything more. "I don't
remember my dreams, I just remember everything else."

"All right. Before I give you any advice, or any predictions - do
you need to hear anything from me? I'm not talking out my arse,
but I can understand it if you need proof," says Pete quietly. He
drains his bottle, then sets it down, and sets his fork down on
his plate. And then he stands. "And you've been quite calm enough,
and controlled enough, that I believe we can remove the tape. I've
got your glasses here, but it's up to you."

Scott focuses on where your voice is coming from, just a little
confused. "Proof of what?" His mouth quirks into a faint smile. "I
already know you're an asshole, Wisdom, was there something else
that I didn't know?" he's trying to be funny, all the while hoping
it doesn't fall flat. "And I'd rather have my fingers set before
the tape comes off."

"Proof I'm not talking out my arse when I tell you what it'd be in
your best interest to do, about your memories and your dreams, and
about your life from here on," says Pete, flatly. His knuckles
crack audibly, and there's the sound of him pulling his coat on.
"Because I have memories, and scars, and dreams, and for some
reason I'm still alive. So. I'm calling a cab, you might want to
dress."

Scott sighs, humor obviously flew like a stone. He rises from the
kitchen table and goes into his bedroom, all without even brushing
up once against a wall. Proof that he remembers. A few moments of
shuffling in the closet have him back in the living room, but with
a shirt that he can't button very easily. Oh, it can be done with
one hand, but not without a lot of hassle. So he's going to
swallow his pride and ask for a bit of help. But first, he has to
let you know that he heard you, and the offer meant a lot. "I want
to still be alive," His 'view' drops, his chin almost touching his
chest. "I want to be someone that people go to for advice, for
shit like this."

When Scott's gotten back, Pete's finished demanding a cab - they
didn't want to come out this way, especially, but bribes were
invented for a reason. And when Scott comes in, Pete's leaning
against the counter, smoking idly. If Scott's at all in any frame
of mind to be aware of patterns in the behavior of others, he
might note that Wisdom chainsmokes sometimes and goes without a
cigarette for hours upon hours with no problems, at other times.
And that these wildly different bits of behavior map as reactions
to moods. There's an edge to his voice - it's almost anxiety. "All
right, Scott," he says, making the effort to be calm and
businesslike. "You can be, and it'll hold, because this time it's
your decision. Do you need to hear anything from me?" The
repetition is pointed - and its intent is what's causing the
anxiety in Wisdom's tone. Scott's going to have to ask if he wants
his buttons buttoned.

Scott plays up the helplessness, some warning klaxon going off in
his head that something isn't quite right with you. Finally, he
chooses to ask the question pointedly, because he's a direct sort
of man. "Could you help me get these buttons worked out, while you
tell me what you had to live through to be who you are?" It's only
fair, Scott laid himself bare, and while he was pretty damned
defenseless, too. He'll give you the benefit of not being able to
see your face while you dig up the skeletons. "Please. Even trade,
and all that."

There's a notable level of relief in Wisdom's answer - he's
formally been asked, and the trust has already been established,
and for Christ's sake he has to tell *someone*. Forseeing the
possible eventuality of his spilling, here, the former
intelligence agent has already gone over Scott's flat in search of
surveillance equipment, and come up with nothing. So he can tell.
"Yes," he exhales, stubbing the cigarette out in the tray on the
table and coming forward. Carefully, he buttons Scott's shirt. Now
his voice is the toneless flat of recollection. "I've been
associated with various facets of British Intelligence since I was
seventeen years old. They knew I was a mutant from the start, but
the then-current administration put me in the same training
programs and classes that all the other rookies were taking..."

Scott nods, putting his good hand on your arm. Not a gesture of
familiarity, so much as comfort offered. He's not very good with
words, and doesn't say what he thinks a good deal of the time, but
he's trying.

Yeah, and Pete doesn't need to be shown that he can snarl. All
right, so that was low. Anyway. "I was all right for a while.
Scored high, was placed enviably well, got choice missions - the
administration changed. I don't remember why I didn't try to get
out before I crossed every line I thought I had...but you have to
understand, it was progressive. Got transferred to a branch called
the Factory, and it was fine at first. It was fine." Buttons are
finished; Wisdom's hands drop to his sides, then hook in his
pockets. "But after a year of each job being just a little worse
than the last, I found myself torturing people as a part of the
process of finding out what made their powers tick. I was
twenty-two, and a bright mutant spy with brilliant prospects, and
I was taking part in the interrogations and eventual vivisections
of bright young mutants who would've had brilliant prospects if
they'd never met us." Toneless.

Scott shivers, he can't help it. He's wondering what would have
happened if Pete's people had found him before Xavier did. Would
he have ended up as a body on the morgue slab, someone trying to
find out why he was capable of absorbing sunlight and turning it
into a weapon? His mouth drops open in mild shock, before he gets
it back under control, and tucks the shirt into his pants. He'll
get /that/ button on his own, thanks.

Good, because Wisdom wasn't about to volunteer to help with it.
Not that there's anything wrong with that. Continuing with the
story, and moving back away from Scott to lean on the counter
again, Pete's voice retains the chilly, dead quality he's kept in
the telling. "Pryde's the last person I ever told about any of
this, Summers. And she loved me anyway." There's the first flicker
of emotion, but he's not done yet, so he wrenches back away. "I
was twenty-two, I put my foot down. I don't know what woke me
up...but I don't know that I was ever asleep. I refused to work
for them any more, do any more of that, but you can't just quit
from something like that. And since I was a mutant, I wasn't just
killed. I only remember flashes..." He's lit another cigarette in
the meantime. "My sister Romany collected what was left of me, and
spent a good year and a half of her life taking care of my body
while she fitted the pieces of my mind back together." A beat.
"And since then, it's been me making resolutions never to get
involved again, and *STUPIDLY*--" this is half-yelled, so angry is
Wisdom with himself - half-yelled and violent, "--thinking I can
change the world, and finding out too late that idealism's got in
the way of reason and I'm helping the wrong side again..."

Scott remembers what Pete was like the first day he met him, and
matches up the tone of voice with the expression that must be on
the man's face now. He will not judge him, he can't, not after
what he's been through, himself, but he can ask questions. "Are
you sure that you're working for the wrong side?" he inquires,
voice steady, like the base of a mountain, something for the water
to rage against, and wear down. "I don't know enough about where
you've been, since you got here to make that kind of judgement
call, Wisdom..."

"Right now?" sighs Pete, voice slightly muffled, since his forehead's
resting in one hand, that elbow propped on his cigarette arm, across his
stomach. "Who I'm working for right now. I don't know. The first thing
they ask me to do, even remotely dodgy, I'm out. But they haven't, yet.
It's all aboveboard." There's a deep sigh, and the size of Wisdom's
exhaustion is apparent, comparable to the mountainous steadiness of
Scott's voice. "I thought I was out, Summers. Pryde let me see her world,
and we married the two, made a life that made sense, were nearly married
ourselves...but there was something horrifically wrong with Rasputin's
mind, and he killed her to keep her from me, and I killed him as he was
coming after me, and then I wasn't welcome anywhere. Tried to live without
her. It didn't work - so, y'see mate, I know from suicide attempts. I know
from torture. I know from loaded conscience, and evil, and paranoia, and
pain, and scars and nightmares and memories that define edges." All of the
last was spoken quickly, almost in one breath, as though Wisdom had to
force it out before he lost the nerve to finish. "And I can tell you that
it's not what you've done, or who you were, or what you've seen or the
pain you've caused - that's not what counts in the present. It's what
you're trying to do, and who you're trying to be, and what you fix because
you care. And it's accepting your past, and moving forward." *Deep*
relieved exhalation. And one very rueful, "Sorry for all that, mate. Ran
off at the mouth, I did."