Vagabond at the Buffet (Pt. 1)

Posted on Fri Jan 10th, 2025 @ 22:31 by Jacqueline Myers & Valjean Beaumont

Chapter: Besieged
Location: Main Dining Hall, Avalon Institute
Timeline: February 1st, 1993
2276 words - 4.6 OF Standard Post Measure

Jackie stuck close by Andrew as he showed the way toward food. There was so much to take it that she didn’t really pay attention to where she was being led, only keeping out of the way of others and the smells she could catch as they moved closer to their destination. “I never really learned self-defense. More people were scared of me before it got to the point where I had to defend myself.” Her words petered off, “Until that night.”

Her fingers pulled at the sides of her sweatshirt again, drawing the fabric in tight around her torso. “I didn’t think I needed to.” Her eyes briefly moved to Andrew with a shrug, it was too late but she’d make sure it didn’t happen again.

Andrew could see the somewhat awestruck looks and her somewhat distracted movements as he led her to where the cafeteria was. "When I first stepped into the world of martial arts, it was because of several fights I got into as a youth. It was a way to find other ways to work through my anger and learn a level of self-confidence and control. I never expected to travel the path I have with martial arts." He would rest a hand on her shoulder; however, he wasn't sure how she would feel about that. "The level of violence against mutants has seemed to be on the rise in the last several years."

They reached the doors to where the food could be found. "I have been teaching the fellow faculty basic self-defense, if you would like to join these classes, I can help you as well."

With every step closer the pair got to the canteen the more the walls seemed to close in around around them. What started as a dull murmur built to an intense cacophony with a shrill buzz that filled Jackie’s head, the scrape of chairs jolted through her body with a sharp tense and a grimace, being dragged across the floor and blinded by a single shard of light. He was right about the level of violence, his voice started to fade into the static that filled her. She stayed close to him, but her gaze drifted, her mind elsewhere.

Memories surged to the surface before her eyes: the desperate fight against grabbing hands and the rough grate of hessian placed over her head, the damp smell of dirt replacing toast and cooked meats. The lift of being hauled from the floor to stop the growing brambles from keeping her down. She could feel the memory scrapes on her legs and the ache of her muscles. Unseen her thumb found a loose thread along the inside edge of the cuff, circling it slowly to wind around her digit, looping it tight.

The woman’s steps slowed dragging slightly behind her guide before grinding to a complete stop when they reached the scuffed double doors of the canteen, the brass push panels gleamed under the humming fluorescent lights. Unassuming and ordinary but completely insurmountable to her. A tightness spread through her chest, like the brambles that had tried to hold her down.

One hand instinctively moved up to pull at the crew neck collar of the oversized sweatshirt; it felt tight as if the fabric had shrunk around her, stealing her breath and squeezing her in. The ringing in her ears was overshadowed by the thud of her pulse, drowning out Andrew's offer of help. All she could do was stand there, caught in the memories and the noises that surrounded her, with short shallow breaths.

As they talked and moved closer and closer to the double doors, he began to notice to differences in his companion's gait and composure. Having been a soldier and gone through and in fact still having battles with PTSD, he knew the signs of panic and anxiety.

They were maybe 5 feet from the door when Jackie just stopped. Andrew could see the pallid look to her greenish skin. He knew not to touch her shoulders or arms as he knew the ferocity of instinctual actions which could come of such things. He turned to look at her. "Jackie, you are in a safe place." He spoke calmly and slowly, hoping the even tone of his voice could break through whatever memories were assaulting her right now. "We can find a quieter place to sit, if that would help you."

Andrew knew how PTSD and panic could affect someone. He had been in Kuwait, on joint mission with the SIB (Special Investigation Branch) and US CID (Criminal Investigation Department). They had gotten a tip that a large amount of heroin was being transported by a group within the Taliban. During a raid on a three-story building, on the second floor he had been the second up the stairs when a jarring pain had sent him down to the landing. The next thing he remembered was voices and then nothing as he passed out from shock.

Three days later he awoke with a joint in a German Military Hospital. That had been a shock to him, the fact that he had lost three days and that he was no longer in Kuwait. The experience and his recovery was not something he talked about; it hadn't been easy having been a promising officer with a bright career and then what felt like suddenly to him all that was gone.

He never talked about he still had two screws in his leg keeping everything together. It had slowed him down at first, but after his time in rehab and recovery he was back at 95%. He supposed it was one of the reasons he was such a stickler for constant training as it was one of the things that kept him going.

Jackie’s gaze darted toward Andrew, his voice barely cutting through the static like a faint signal. Her grip on the sweatshirt’s collar loosened, just enough to let air into her lungs. “Okay,” she murmured with a nod, unsure if she was answering him or simply willing herself forward. “I’ll try.”

Her movements were rigid as she took a step, her hand making contact with the brassy push plate. Cool to the touch but sticky from the constant use. The noise hit her like a wall, each sound sharpening and layering over the next: trays clattering, chairs scraping, conversations rising and falling. She flinched, her focus narrowing to the man beside her before pushing the door open entirely. Bumps of prickles formed on her skin catching on the fabric of her clothes, “I am safe.” She repeated quietly under her breath. “There’s just kids …”

She scanned the room, with so many different faces and ages. Most would be unnoticeable if she weren’t in a safe haven for mutants. Much like a cartoon character, her nose lifted with short sniffs, her hands returning to her elbows attempting to free them from the fleecy inside of her sweatshirt.

Walking into what passed for the cafeteria for this school, the only thing that still caught him by surprise was the fact that there was so much noise. While in the service, he had grown accustomed to the limited volume of noise, it was a simple fact that when you ate, you were mostly silent and so you ate your food, and moved on with your day.

"I will be with you every step of the way, Jackie." He could still see how rigid and unsure she was as he walked beside her. "You can consider me your Jiminy Cricket on the shoulder." He wasn't sure if the joke would help her, but he would do what he could to keep her moving forward.

Andrew continued to lead her over to where the food and chef were. The fact that this private school/haven for mutants had a world class chef in the form of Valjean, proved that the school was truly quite posh. "Mr. Beaumont, may I introduce the newest to this growing haven and school, Miss Jaqueline Myers. I have been acting as her guide of sorts." He rested what he hoped was a calming hand on Jackie's shoulder.

"Another new face, and do you think the illustrous Head Mistress Cavendish bothered to inform the staff?" Valjean grabbed a plate and without too much ceremony put it in front of Jacqueline, "Non, bien sûr que non." He sighed heavily, another Valjean passed behind him, looked at the new face and rolled his eyes. "Dietary requirements?"

Andrew’s steady stream of reassurances were like a lifeline, his words a quiet anchor amid the chaotic hum of the cafeteria. But when a sudden burst of laughter rang out, Jackie flinched, instinctively stepping closer behind him. The reference to Jiminy Cricket coaxed a faint, fleeting smile. She could still recall sitting with Emily in Norfolk, utterly captivated when the film had come out on video after not being allowed a trip to Norwich for a visit to Blockbuster.

The chef’s words had an elegant cadence, the unfamiliar language tickling at the edges of her memory. French, maybe? His name certainly sounded it. “Uh, hello? No dietary requirements. I’m sorry,” she mumbled, clutching the plate with a tightening grip. The room’s noise pressed in on her, the sight of multiple identical chefs stirring a strange unease. Twins? she thought, trying to rationalize it. Her stomach churned, not audibly above the din, but enough to remind her she needed to push through. One hand drifted down, brushing against the fabric of Andrew’s shirt and curling lightly around it, the contact grounding her. “Sorry,” she murmured, her brows knitting as she fought the growing urge to retreat.

"Then you will eat the same," Valjean had been asked to make sure the stores were full and that they could stretch their supplies as much as possible. With the help of a couple of different abilities from staff and students they could probably last through the winter, unless of course more people were joining that he wasn't made aware of.

A third Valjean walked out the kitchen with a fresh batch of scrambled eggs. "oeufs brouillés" He put the large bowl down and stuck a serving spoon in, "Who is she?" He asked of the first Valjean that had been talking to them.

"She is, how you say, vagabonde."

"One would think the Head Mistress could let us know, non?"

The first Valjean shrugged.

"Eggs?"

He could see that the only thing keeping Jackie from bolting was his presence. "Well, Valjean, it's not that the headmistress did not inform you of her addition, she hasn't met her." He felt her slip behind him. "I found her on my morning run, I understand that she was rescued and brought here. I provided clean clothes and a shower, and when I told her about food, it was decided that it was a good idea to get food before meeting Lady Cavendish."

Andrew made sure to keep her safe as he grabbed a plate for each of them. "Yes, eggs are fine."

Jackie shrank back into the oversized sweatshirt, her matted hair and gaunt face only emphasizing the chef’s blunt description of a vagabond. She had a home once, a job, clothes, and a life. The sight of a third chef stepping into view jolted her thoughts. Triplets? No, unlikely. Her surroundings held an undertone of something extraordinary, a power she’d never imagined.

Her breath hitched as a sharp, cold wave of detachment swept over her, her mind starting to drift. She froze in place, muscles locking as though her body were no longer hers. Her fingers reached for the back of Andrew’s shirt, curling into the fabric, but it wasn’t enough. Almost without thinking, her hand brushed lower, fingertips grazing his side where the hem of his shirt had risen.

The warmth of his skin beneath her touch brought an instant jolt, a vivid and almost unbearable *realness.* She recoiled slightly at first, the sensation stark and unfamiliar after so long in isolation. But then, her breathing slowed, the raw human connection pulling her back to the present, grounding her in the cacophony of the room.

Her lips parted, and a faint, shaky whistle escaped—a fragile attempt at the Jiminy Cricket tune. It was barely audible, more breath than melody, but it tethered her. The motion steadied her enough to loosen her grip, her fingers falling away as she whispered, “I’m sorry. Thank you.”

Rescued. The word lingered uneasily in her mind, a puzzle she couldn’t piece together. Had she escaped, or had someone let her go? The answers danced just out of reach, replaced by flashes of running through the cold and collapsing in the wilderness. “Yes, eggs are fine. Thank you.” She let Andrew take the lead, keeping close by and eyes down.

There was a moment of hesitation in the eyes of the Chef, it cascaded across the other two instances of him. He had seen the behaviour before. It wasn't that of a soldier returning from war. It wasn't that of a drifter finding a place to call home. It was the look in the eyes of a prisoner that had been put in solitary confinement for much longer than was reasonable. His expression softened, this too cascaded to the others. "I have a chef's table in the kitchen. You can have your meal there." he spoke softly, measured, even making an effort to diminish his thick French accent.

To be continued...