Jim Steinman-- Bat Out Of Hell
Shaking violently, the boy woke up. The dreams were very bad tonight, perhaps even worse than they were every other night. Shivering, despite the heat, he wrapped the blankets around himself. I will not cry, he told himself. I will NOT scream. I CAN control this.. Burying his face in the pillows, he let the tears come to him. You're such a damned wimp! he told himself. But it didn't help, he continued to cry.
Hank looked up from his book as Jean entered the room. "Jean, what are you doing up?" he asked. "It's late."
"I know." She walked over and sat down at the chair across from Hanks. "But our 'guest' woke me again."
Hank sighed. "He's still having those dreams, isn't he?"
Jean nodded. "And each night they get worse. I want to go to him, I want to comfort him, but the psychic backlash he gives off in this state could kill me."
"He is powerful, isn't he?" Hank put down his book. "And none of these dreams seem to help him, do they? None of them lead him any closer to discovering who he is or how he came here."
"It's times like this when I wish Charles was still here to help," Jean said, rising from her chair and going to the window. "As powerful as I am, he made me look like an amateur. Perhaps he could help the boy."
Hank sighed. "We all miss Charles. But we have no real proof he died."
Jean turned, her eyes blazing. "Maybe you don't, but I do!" she snapped. "I'm the one who he reached out to. When the car exploded, I'm the one who heard the scream. I'm the one who felt him slip away! How dare you say that we have no proof! So, they never found a body. I know the truth! He's dead Hank!"
"I'm sorry," Hank said, coming over and putting his hand on her shoulder. "I know you have been under a lot of strain lately. You and Scott were very close to the professor. We all were, but you two perhaps more. "
Jean fought back the tears. I'm sorry too Hank. It's been almost a year, but the pain is still as fresh in my mind as if it happened yesterday."
"I understand," Hank said. "I still miss Charles."
"Well, right now that's besides the point," Jean said, wiping her eyes, quickly trying to change the subject. "We were talking about the boy."
"You know, I wish he could just remember his name to start with," Hank said, the faint trace of a smile on his face. "I feel so bad just calling him 'The Boy'."
"I know," Jean turned from the window. "But, should we just give him a name? What if he remembers his later?"
"He's been here for three months," Hank pointed out. "And he hasn't been able to remember anything. Who he is, what he was doing wandering around in the storm, or how he got here. And what have we been able to find out about him? That he seems to be approximately 13 years old. He's been badly beaten several times in his life, and he has a very high psychic ability that he has no idea how to control. We can't even help him. You've tried and you can't get close enough."
"Maybe I should try harder."
"Jean, no one has tried harder than you. He's almost killed you twice. Scott is right, until we can find a way to stabilize his power, you can't go trying to probe his mind."
"Speaking of Scott, he's woken up." Jean's head tipped to one side, as if she was listening to something. "He's wondering where I am."
"Perhaps you should go back to bed," Hank suggested. "It is late and you need your sleep."
"What about you?" Jean asked, smiling.
"I know, I know," Hank smiled sheepishly. "I'm better at giving good advice than following it myself. I will retire shortly."
"All right then," Jean yawned sleepily. "Tomorrow is another day. Perhaps that will be the day we can help the boy."
"Who knows?" Hank agreed. "Perhaps we will."
"Good night, Hank."
"Good night Jean. Sleep well."
Hank watched as she left the room, then walked over to the desk. Sitting down, he turned on the computer. "What do we know so far about this child," he murmured. "And is there any way, with what we do know, that we can help him?"
"Dr. McCoy?"
Hank looked up from the computer screen as the boy entered the room. "Yes?"
The child walked over to him. "I can't sleep any more tonight. Am I disturbing you?"
Hank quickly brought up another file, so the boy wouldn't see what Hank had written about him. "No, you're not disturbing me at all."
The child stood beside Hank, his brow eyes wide. "I suppose I'm too big to be..hugged huh?"
Hank smiled. "You're never too big to be hugged," he said, scooping up the boy and putting him in his lap. "Even adults like myself need to be comforted once in awhile."
The boy snuggled up to Hank, resting his head on Hank's chest. "I don't feel thirteen," he said.
"What do you mean?" Hank asked. "Are you saying you feel older or younger?"
The child shrugged. "Both and neither. Sometimes I feel much younger than thirteen and sometimes I feel much older."
Interesting, Hank thought. According to the physical I gave him when he first arrived here, he had been badly beaten when he was very young. Then there seemed to be a long span of time when he wasn't hurt, and then it started up again. I wish I knew more about this child. I wish he knew more about himself!
"I'm a disappointment to you, aren't I, Dr. McCoy," the boy said. "You want to know more about me and I can't tell you."
"Did you read that from my mind?" Hank asked.
"I don't know," the child said, shrugging.
"Well, I'm not disappointed in you," Hank explained. "I'm disappointed in the situation you're in. Everyone here wants to help you and none of us can figure out anything about you. And really, child, you don't have to call me Dr. McCoy. You can call me Hank if you wish."
The child shook his head. "I'm not your age. I don't know why, but calling you Hank seems...disrespectful."
What old fashioned attitudes this child has, Hank thought with an amused smile. "Well, Dr. McCoy sounds much to formal. Perhaps we can come up with a compromise?"
The boy buried his face in Hank's shirt and mumbled something.
"What was that?" Hank asked.
"Nothing," the boy murmured.
"Oh, Come now, child, you did say something!"
He looked up. "I said I could call you Uncle Henry."
Hank's eyes misted. What is it about this boy that touches me so? "If you wish, I would like that very much."
The boy just grinned.
"Now that you know what to call me, I only wish we had a name to call you by," Hank said. "Have you been trying to think of what your name might be?"
The boy nodded, earnestly. "All the time, Uncle Henry. And I just can't figure it out. But..." he stopped.
"But what?" Hank urged.
"Sometimes, in my dreams....I hear someone calling out, 'Kyle!' very loud. A man," He paused for a moment. "I don't know if he's calling for me or not."
"Do you feel that your name might be Kyle?" Hank asked.
The boy frowned. "I don't know. It might be....then again it might NOT be."
Perhaps at this point, just having a name would help him, Hank thought. Even if it isn't his real name. Calling him Child or Boy just re-enforces that he has no memories, no real identity. "Do you like the name Kyle?" Hank asked. "Would you like to be called that? At least until we figure out what your real name is?"
The child shrugged. "It's okay. And I suppose it would be easier for everyone if I had a name."
"It certainly would be easier for me." Hank smiled.
"All right then," the boy said. "You can call me Kyle."
"Well, if that is going to be your name, we have to make this official." Hank picked up the boy and sat him so he was facing him. He picked up a letter opener. "Close your eyes, little one."
The boy did as he was asked, grinning.
Hank gently tapped the boy's shoulders with the letter opener. "I hereby christen thee Kyle," he said. "Until such a time that your true name is know to us." He tapped the letter opener on the boy's head. "Open your eyes Sir Kyle."
The boy opened his eyes, his grin even wider. "Thank, Uncle Henry!"
"You're welcome, Kyle." He put his arms around the boy, scooping him into his lap again. "In light of this joyous occasion, I think a cup of cocoa might be in order. What do you think?"
Kyle nodded. "I think that is a great idea."
Still holding Kyle, Hank walked into the kitchen.