TITLE: Red Nail Polish
AUTHOR: Mara Greengrass
AUTHOR'S E-MAIL: fishfolk@ix.netcom.com. Feedback is better than chocolate.
PERMISSION TO ARCHIVE: Yes, just let me know.
CATEGORY: Gen, angst
RATINGS/WARNINGS: PG
SUMMARY: What do you think about when your world is falling apart?
DISCLAIMER: The X-Men and the X-Men movieverse belong to Marvel and
Twentieth-Century Fox and other entities with expensive lawyers. I am making no
profit from this story.
NOTES/DEDICATION: This story was written in response to a Challenge in a Can
(http://www.dymphna.net/challenge). I came up with the idea while sitting with
my husband in a hospital emergency room waiting to hear about my father-in-law
and watching my mother-in-law pace. So, even though they'll never read this, I
dedicate this story to Sam and Tamar Fishman. Jean Grey/bitter/nail polish.
********************************
The nail polish was red. Fire engine red. It matched the dress she had chosen
for the evening, the dress she'd chosen because Scott loved how it looked on
her.
The damn nail polish was *so* red. So bright and cheerful. It was sickening.
Bright and cheerful. It matched the two chairs outside the combined lab/hospital
room under the mansion. Why had she never noticed how incongruous those chairs
were? Too bright against cool blue/silver walls. Too much like flames licking up
against the walls.
She sat in one of the chairs, with a silent Ororo next to her, and waited for
Hank to bring her news about Scott.
She sat and stared at her nail polish. It wasn't even chipped. It looked as
fresh as it had when she'd put it on this afternoon.
That was unfair. It should be chipped, shredded like the dress it matched. How
could she get through a fight without even chipping the goddamn polish?
How could her lover be lying in that room dying and she and her nail polish were
unscathed?
It shouldn't be so bright. How could anything be bright when Scott was hurt?
She wanted to just dip her hands in acetone to get rid of it. Acetone or battery
acid, because who cared what happened to her hands if Scott died? Nothing
mattered if he died.
The red of her nails didn't look bright and cheerful anymore. It looked like
blood, like Scott's blood as he lay on the ground in front of her. His blood
pouring out because he'd refrained from using his powers for fear of hitting the
other people in the restaurant.
She didn't usually wear nail polish, but it went so well with the dress, she'd
gone to the trouble.
Scott came by the bedroom while she was putting it on, wrinkled his nose at the
smell and then tried to tickle her. She'd kicked him out of the room so she
could finish the nail polish.
Kicked him out of the room. Sent him away. Voluntarily given up time they could
have spent together.
She begrudged every single second she'd spent putting the polish on and waiting
for it to dry. Wasted time. Just like Scott's life would be wasted if he died.
She swallowed convulsively, almost choking at the thought. She tasted bitter
bile, bitter to match her thoughts. Distantly, she felt Ororo's arm around her
shoulder and the concern in her mind, but she kept staring at the nail polish.
The Professor came and tried to talk to her, but she just divided her time
between looking at her hands and staring at the door. Waiting for Hank to come
out. Resisting the urge to burst through the door and demand to help treat
Scott.
She wanted to scratch herself with her nails, scratch until she broke through
the numbness, scratch until she bled so she could be with Scott.
But she sat in the chair and waited. She waited with her bitter thoughts and her
red nail polish.
AUTHOR: Mara Greengrass
AUTHOR'S E-MAIL: fishfolk@ix.netcom.com. Feedback is better than chocolate.
PERMISSION TO ARCHIVE: Yes, just let me know.
CATEGORY: Gen, angst
RATINGS/WARNINGS: PG
SUMMARY: What do you think about when your world is falling apart?
DISCLAIMER: The X-Men and the X-Men movieverse belong to Marvel and
Twentieth-Century Fox and other entities with expensive lawyers. I am making no
profit from this story.
NOTES/DEDICATION: This story was written in response to a Challenge in a Can
(http://www.dymphna.net/challenge). I came up with the idea while sitting with
my husband in a hospital emergency room waiting to hear about my father-in-law
and watching my mother-in-law pace. So, even though they'll never read this, I
dedicate this story to Sam and Tamar Fishman. Jean Grey/bitter/nail polish.
********************************
The nail polish was red. Fire engine red. It matched the dress she had chosen
for the evening, the dress she'd chosen because Scott loved how it looked on
her.
The damn nail polish was *so* red. So bright and cheerful. It was sickening.
Bright and cheerful. It matched the two chairs outside the combined lab/hospital
room under the mansion. Why had she never noticed how incongruous those chairs
were? Too bright against cool blue/silver walls. Too much like flames licking up
against the walls.
She sat in one of the chairs, with a silent Ororo next to her, and waited for
Hank to bring her news about Scott.
She sat and stared at her nail polish. It wasn't even chipped. It looked as
fresh as it had when she'd put it on this afternoon.
That was unfair. It should be chipped, shredded like the dress it matched. How
could she get through a fight without even chipping the goddamn polish?
How could her lover be lying in that room dying and she and her nail polish were
unscathed?
It shouldn't be so bright. How could anything be bright when Scott was hurt?
She wanted to just dip her hands in acetone to get rid of it. Acetone or battery
acid, because who cared what happened to her hands if Scott died? Nothing
mattered if he died.
The red of her nails didn't look bright and cheerful anymore. It looked like
blood, like Scott's blood as he lay on the ground in front of her. His blood
pouring out because he'd refrained from using his powers for fear of hitting the
other people in the restaurant.
She didn't usually wear nail polish, but it went so well with the dress, she'd
gone to the trouble.
Scott came by the bedroom while she was putting it on, wrinkled his nose at the
smell and then tried to tickle her. She'd kicked him out of the room so she
could finish the nail polish.
Kicked him out of the room. Sent him away. Voluntarily given up time they could
have spent together.
She begrudged every single second she'd spent putting the polish on and waiting
for it to dry. Wasted time. Just like Scott's life would be wasted if he died.
She swallowed convulsively, almost choking at the thought. She tasted bitter
bile, bitter to match her thoughts. Distantly, she felt Ororo's arm around her
shoulder and the concern in her mind, but she kept staring at the nail polish.
The Professor came and tried to talk to her, but she just divided her time
between looking at her hands and staring at the door. Waiting for Hank to come
out. Resisting the urge to burst through the door and demand to help treat
Scott.
She wanted to scratch herself with her nails, scratch until she broke through
the numbness, scratch until she bled so she could be with Scott.
But she sat in the chair and waited. She waited with her bitter thoughts and her
red nail polish.