Pain meant he was still alive.
That was the first thing Eli noticed.
It throbbed in rhythms — dull in some places, sharp in others. Breathing made his ribs burn. His left shoulder pulsed in sync with his heartbeat. His knuckles felt tight and thick, the skin swollen. His thigh had been wrapped, the pressure constant but manageable.
He opened his eyes slowly.
The ceiling overhead was smooth, white, and quiet. A kind of sterile perfection that didn't feel like safety. It felt artificial. Wrong.
Too clean.
He tried to sit up. Got halfway there before the effort failed him.
A grunt escaped his throat. The bed beneath him was too soft, the kind that sank beneath his weight in a way that made his skin crawl. There was no support. It felt like a trap disguised as comfort.
His instincts sharpened.
The door creaked open.
He let his gaze shift slightly, enough to catch the motion from the corner of his eye.
Logan stepped in.
He said nothing at first. A metal mug rested in one hand, still steaming. The scent of black coffee rolled in behind him like a weather front — dark and bitter.
"About time," Logan said, dropping into the chair beside the bed.
Eli remained silent.
"You were out for two days. Had half the med bay arguing your healing." Logan took a slow sip. "I told 'em to quit whining and let you sleep."
Eli shifted slowly, testing what still worked. Everything ached. Nothing was broken. He could move — that was enough.
He hated being watched. Especially while injured.
Logan caught the glance.
"Relax," he said. "No monitors in here. No one's poking around your brain. They know better."
A moment passed.
Then Eli asked, his voice dry and cracked, "Who's dead?"
"No one."
Eli turned slightly, eyes narrowing.
Logan grunted. "Bit of fire damage. Scott's ego got scuffed. You took a spike to the leg and a face full of shrapnel. But everyone's breathing."
Eli let that sink in.
"Magneto?"
"Gone. He got the message. Probably didn't like it." Logan smirked. "You clocked his pyro-boy good. Broke his jaw. Proud of you for that one."
Eli looked down at his hands.
They were bruised and wrapped in gauze. The knuckles dark with healing blood. But they still felt like his. Still steady.
Still strong.
Logan stood and stretched. "I'll let Jean know you're up. She's been checking in."
"I don't need babysitters."
"No," Logan said, pausing at the door. "You need time. But don't mistake rest for surrender."
He left.
Eli stared at the ceiling a while longer and didn't fall back asleep.
—---------------------------------—----
Earlier during the fight's aftermath…
Jean Grey leaned against the observation window, arms folded, watching Eli breathe.
He was unconscious, but it didn't feel like rest. His face twitched occasionally, brow furrowing, fingers curling. Like he was still fighting — even now.
Logan stepped up beside her. "You look worried."
Jean didn't take her eyes off Eli. "Not worried. Curious."
"About what?"
She hesitated.
"He doesn't read like a mutant."
Logan frowned. "You mean mentally?"
"No. Emotionally. His patterns are different. Guarded. Feral."
"Trauma?"
"Maybe." She exhaled. "But not just that."
Logan scratched his beard. "You think Xavier picked up on it?"
"If he tried to read him, he didn't say."
They stood in silence a moment longer.
Then Jean said softly, "There's something raw in him. Something buried deep. He fights like it's the only part of him that makes sense."
Logan nodded.
"I've seen that before."
—---------------------------------—----
Eli stood, slower than usual.
His body complained with every motion — stiff joints, tight muscle, dull pain blooming just beneath the skin — but he moved anyway. He'd fought through worse.
A shirt lay folded on the edge of a nearby dresser. Plain grey. He pulled it on; the fit was good enough. His old hoodie was nowhere in sight. Burned, probably.
Good.
That skin had served its time.
He limped to the sink, braced his hands on either side, and splashed water on his face. The mirror above caught his reflection in harsh white light. Bruises still clung to the lines of his cheek and jaw. One eye remained puffy, half-shadowed by swelling. His hair stuck out in chaotic spikes.
He looked like someone who'd been hit by a truck — and got up anyway.
He smirked at the reflection.
"Still here."
A knock at the door.
Eli turned fast, instincts coiling. The bruises didn't slow his alertness.
It was Jean.
She stood in the open doorway, dressed simply.
"Didn't mean to spook you," she said, voice even.
"You didn't."
She stepped inside, but left the door open behind her.
"Logan said you were up. I'm Jean, by the way."
"Guess he talks a lot."
"Only when it matters."
For a moment, they stood in silence. Two people weighing the space between them.
Eli couldn't tell what she wanted. She didn't move like a threat and didn't feel like one.
Which made him wary.
She caught it.
"I'm not here to read you," she said quietly. "I… can't."
That gave him pause.
His brow drew slightly in confusion.
She didn't wait.
"I mean, I've tried. Not to invade. It's a… reflex."
"And?"
"Nothing. You're blank. Like a closed book with no cover."
"Maybe there's nothing to read."
Jean's lips curved, barely. "There's always something."
Another quiet beat passed.
Then she asked, "You hungry?"
Eli gave a small nod.
—---------------------------------—----
They ate in the garden.
It wasn't anything extravagant — just benches set between neatly trimmed hedges and gravel paths that wound without urgency. The kind of place built for calm. The food matched the setting: simple.
A sandwich. An apple. A bottle of water.
Eli didn't trust the quiet. It felt like a setup. Too still. Too undisturbed.
But he ate anyway.
Jean didn't press him. She sat nearby, present and unintrusive. That earned her points he wasn't handing out easily.
Eventually, he spoke.
"This place… it's too quiet."
"You mean peaceful."
"I mean suspicious."
She tilted her head, studying him without pushing. "Does it bother you?"
"No. It's just not real."
Jean leaned back slightly, hands resting on the bench behind her. "It is. For some people. Maybe not forever. But here… it's safe."
Eli's gaze drifted toward the grass.
"What if I don't want safe?"
She didn't waver. "Then you'll have to decide what you want."
He didn't reply.
But his fingers closed tighter around the water bottle.
"I want to speak with the guy in the wheelchair."
—---------------------------------—----
Later that evening, as the light began to fade and the sky turned soft with dusk, Xavier entered the medical wing.
Eli was sitting on the edge of the bed, arm wrapped, eyes distant.
Xavier said nothing at first. Just parked his wheelchair near the foot of the bed.
Eli looked at him.
Xavier said gently. "You took quite the hit."
"I've had worse."
"You're strong."
Eli narrowed his eyes slightly. "Is that why you're here?"
"No," Xavier said. "I'm here because you asked for me."
Eli looked down.
Took a breath.
And said, "We need to talk."
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