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When he looked at his life to this point, Josh knew that somewhere something had gone terribly wrong. He could even pinpoint that moment to a date, a time, and the very thought still ate at him whenever the memories decided to surface, which was far more frequent now that spent most of his time around other the mutants in Ms. Frost's home. And he knew that Ms. Frost knew, and that she herself would never let him forget his one mistake, one lapse in moral judgment.
Still, she'd offered him a roof over his head, and decent food and clothing - even if he still had a hard time accepting such generosity. (Part of him wondered whether it was generosity that motivated his benefactor, while the other part preferred not to find out.)
He'd left school and run to New York for a reason, but Ms. Frost's classes were... different. At first he'd wondered whether it was madness, or pure frustration, that prompted her to pit all her students against one another in situations requiring them to defend themselves using their gifts. He certainly wouldn't have blamed her if it was from frustration - after only two days he'd been sorely tempted to remind half of his fellow house mates that they were extremely lucky to be in the situation they were in, and they should show a little more gratitude (and possibly a better attitude) towards others. But he suspected his complaints would fall on deaf ears.
Instead he'd smiled and tried to let it wash over him. He was in this city for a fresh start, and right now his focus was on his own actions. It had to be.
So, crouched by the floor in the aftermath of Ms. Frost's latest student vs. student session, he wondered for the umpteenth time why he was there. The grumbling band of students started to disband and leave, only a few left behind, including Ms. Frost, who was standing with Marie-Ange.
She was nice enough, he supposed. Gorgeous, of course, but he suspected that Ms. Frost had it written somewhere in her school contracts that all the girls she accepted were attractive, from what he'd seen so far. How she kept any order within the walls of the Brownstone was something of a mystery. Having only been there for a reasonably short period of time, he'd decided to hold off on flirting with anyone (however innocent it would be), just to make sure he wouldn't be stepping on anyone's toes.
Pain creased the otherwise flawless face of the teenage girl, and Josh noticed for the first time that one arm was horribly burnt between the wrist and elbow, the material of her top charred and burnt away. There'd been a fire in that session, although who started it was still going to take time to figure out (he had enough trouble keeping names and faces and mutations straight as it was), and clearly she'd come away with her own souvenir from the event.
Without speaking, Ms. Frost looked his way, pointedly, and then left the room. She wanted him to fix this problem.
Hell, he'd never been one to turn down a damsel in distress. Or pain, in this case.
He smiled, injecting as much charm as he had at his disposal and held out a hand. "May I?" he asked, keeping his voice as neutral as possible. If he'd had a handkerchief handy, he would have passed it to her. "That's a nasty burn you've got there. No one ever tell you not to play with fire?"
She sniffed. "It's not funny," Marie-Ange told him through gritted teeth, still eying her damaged arm, and keeping a safe distance between the two of them. He wondered if she thought it would be damaged forever. She had been told that he could heal injuries, but it was possible that she didn't believe it was true. There hadn't been any cause to display his little talent since arriving at the Brownstone.
"No, it's not," he told her seriously, catching her eyes with his own. "Would you like my help or not?"
He left his hand outstretched, not moving.
She eyed him warily, but he could see the pain behind her eyes. He'd seen the same pain in Sophia's eyes at the diner the one time she'd burnt her hand by accident. It was the look of someone trying to hide the pain behind a tough facade - and failing. "You're really a healer?"
Josh barely nodded his head. "If you want the pain to stop, give me your arm," he told her. Burns he could deal with, even if they made him feel sick to his stomach later on. Everything was proportionate - whatever he healed affected him, although not always in a predictable way. But at least one pretty girl might feel some sort of debt to him.
Yeah, right, the rational part of his brain scoffed.
With more than a little reluctance, Marie-Ange held out her arm. He had to step forward to take hold of her hand - he didn't want to risk hurting her more by holding the burnt skin - and was startled by the heat of her skin. His own hand was cool to the touch.
"This might feel a bit odd," he warned her. And then he concentrated. He'd been doing a lot of reading on injuries ever since his powers manifested, mostly first-aid books and other non-fatal injuries. As his knowledge progressed, he'd found that his ability to heal gradually improved, although it was slow going. He'd read up on burns, mostly because of his work in the diner, figuring it would be the most useful after paper cuts, and so he knew something of how the skin would heal. His powers, were, after all, merely used to speed up the body's own natural healing ability, giving it a giant boost that significantly decreased the time it would take for the body to heal than it would if left to it's own devices.
And, for Marie-Ange's own good luck, left nothing to mar the new skin left behind.
When he was finished, some ten minutes later, the only telltale sign that anything had ever been wrong was the burn sleeve of her top.
He offered her a wry smile.
And then the wave of nausea hit him like a freight train, and he stumbled forward a step, trying not to fall on the girl as he leaned on the wall for support. Next time, he would do this sitting down. It was far less embarrassing to collapse back into a chair than it was to slide down the wall and bury his head between his legs to fight the dizzying feeling in his head.
He thought he head a soft, musical sound, but the pounding in his head blocked it out. When it finally started to recede, he realised it was Marie-Ange, crouched down beside him.
"Are you alright?" she asked. There was no more pain behind her eyes, replaced now by concern, which, while somewhat intriguing, was never a true indicator that a person cared.
When he thought it was safe to do so, he nodded his head slightly and leaned his head back against the wall. "Yeah," he said, taking a deep breath. "No good deed goes unpunished, right?" The corners of his lips turned up in a sardonic smile. "How's the arm?"
She sat back on her heels and watched him, curious. "Much better," she told him. "Thank you."
"Anytime," he told her, taking another deep breath. The pounding in his head was fast becoming a faint memory and in another few minutes he would be able to stand up without tripping over his own feet. He hoped. Until that time he would content himself with the floor in a vain attempt to save face. One embarrassing stumble was quite enough for one day.
She seemed hesitant to ask a question that must have been gnawing at her since his graceless stumble to the floor. He raised an eyebrow and waited patiently for her to ask. He hadn't spent a lot of time getting to know the rest of the students in the Brownstone on a one-to-one basis, and for all he knew she could simply use this as gossip-fodder on the new boy. But, he knew she deserved the right to ask.
"Does this always happen when you..."
He raised an eyebrow again. "When I heal?" He chuckled. "Unfortunately yes. And not always in the same way. Still, I suppose it could be worse. I could end up with the same injuries I try to heal, and - no disrespect - I'd rather deal with nausea than a burnt arm."
The way she looked at him, he wondered if she thought it was bizarre that he could laugh at his own misfortune. Laughter was the mask he drew around himself and he wasn't about to give it up anytime soon.
As ill advised as it was, he pulled himself up off the floor using the wall for primary support. Marie-Ange offered a hand, and he didn't decline, but he made sure the majority of his weight was on the wall. "Thanks," he muttered, standing still for a moment to let himself adjust. The wave of dizziness was mild. Blowing out a sigh, he muttered aloud, "Where's the chocolate when you need it?"
She raised an eyebrow.
If he hadn't already been feeling silly for his almost(-okay-really) collapse to the floor, he might have blushed. Instead, he settled for suitably sheepish. "It's, uh, a Harry Potter reference," he told her. He didn't feel the need to go around professing that he was an unrepentant chocoholic right then and there. He looked down at his watch. "We should go let Ms. Frost know she won't be needing to call the hospital," he told her.
"She already knows," Marie-Ange told him, the corner of her lips twisting up in a smile as she pointed to her head. She was pretty damn irresistible when she smiled, and Josh blew out another sigh to avoid having to reply straight away - knowing his luck he'd say it out loud and end up being slapped.
When he thought he could reply without making more of a fool of himself than he already had, he nodded his head. "Yeah, of course she does. Sorry. Forgot." Telepaths were something he was going to have to get used to, apparently.
He made an 'after you' gesture, and let her lead the way out of the room. With a little luck, he'd make it through the rest of the day.