WCUGirl has graciously betaed this chapter for me, because she is amazing.

Note: This chapter has a rating of M for mention of drug abuse, and the resulting withdrawals and inner struggles. It's rated for safety, and you read at your own risk. I will be dealing with some weighty issues, and if you don't like the idea of Scott going through detox and everything, then please, do not read. If there are any errors, please don't hesitate in correcting me through review or PM.

Disclaimer: Ah… these are so depressing. I do not own Scott. If I did, though, that'd be awesome.

Scott Summers hated life. He hated himself. He hated being surrounded by people who were so much better, and deserved so much more, than he did. He hated being constantly reminded that he didn't have the only two things that had ever given him peace: Jean and drugs, though with the physical pain he was experiencing, he didn't know which hurt worse: thinking of her or living without her. He had known her every thought and every inch of her body, and it had been good. They had been one unit, breaking through every wall that tried to stop them. They were the epitome of what should become of any human being.

Then she died. Then he was alone. All he had then was a haze of alcohol. Then women joined that haze. Then lastly…drugs.

Scott didn't exactly remember how he had gotten drugs for the first time, or how he had gotten addicted so quickly. All he really remembered was being dependant on drugs to get him through four years of worthlessness and loneliness. Then he dropped a good ten grams of crack cocaine on the side of the road and left it behind. He could have coped if he had that, but no. He had to have a clear-minded moment and leave it behind.

He wanted, no, he needed and in every way, desperately craved, that drug. It gave him a euphoria that couldn't be described with words. Oh, he knew it was playing with his brain, and that it was only hurting him. He knew every fact about almost every drug, but he still wanted cocaine, and that was that. He also knew exactly where he could acquire a couple of grams within ten miles. His hands shook at the very idea of finally having drugs back in his system.

Scott groaned as he leaned against the wall next to the toilet. He'd been vomiting for hours now. His body was reacting badly to the absence of cocaine in his system, and he wanted to sleep. He didn't have the motivation to get up and move back into bed, and would fall asleep there if he could. What was his life worth, if he couldn't find some semblance of peace? His entire life was one mess of problems and agony, and he had nothing to stop the flow of memories. He hated remembering, because that meant he would relive losing Jean, and that made everything worse.

His stomach half-heartedly gurgled, reminding him of a basic human need: food. He groaned, weakly hitting his fist against the floor in a show of weak anger. He didn't want to have to get up and enter the world again! He didn't need food. Hopefully, his body would give out from the lack of fluids reentering his bloodstream. He found himself begging for that possibility, and he didn't even try to stop it. As of late, suicide seemed to be a real option. However, the boy scout that was still surviving somewhere within him knew he didn't have the guts to do it. He would gladly put his life on the line, but he could never consciously take his own life, no matter how terrible things got. In some ways, that was a terrible revelation.

His body seized up in anticipation of another bout of vomiting, and he attempted to raise himself from the fetal position he'd curled up into to direct the fluid into the toilet bowl. His muscles ached, and he only managed to soil his t-shirt. He closed his eyes, rubbing them from behind the glasses. He used all of his strength to finally stand, and pulled his t-shirt off, discarding it into the nearest garbage can, which was, thankfully, right next to the toilet. He looked at the mess he'd made on the floor, and shook his head weakly. He'd clean it up later.

Scott almost forgot to take off the sweatpants he'd slept in before jumping into the shower. He couldn't focus on anything. His mind was consumed with memories of the euphoric sensations of drugs. He had, of course, experimented, but nothing seemed to work as well as crack. He turned the water on.

He didn't know how long he'd stood underneath the flow of water. One moment, it had been almost too hot, and the next, it was cold enough to make him shiver. He finally turned the knob and stopped the water. He stood there, dripping, and tears dribbling down his face. He didn't move for a long time.

Scott finally got out of the shower and dried himself mechanically. He went through his daily routine, almost as if nothing had changed. He shaved, combed his hair and dressed in a fresh black t-shirt and a pair of dark-washed jeans he had grown fond of. Women seemed to like the look on him. With those traitorous thoughts flitting through his mind on Jean's territory, he wanted to rip them off and never wear them again, but then he remembered that he didn't have any other clothes. He silenced the thoughts of other women from his mind. In fact, no specific thoughts ran through his mind for a while.

Scott left the guest room he'd been staying in and walked down the hallway after he'd shoved his shoes onto his feet. On autopilot, he found the kitchen. He poured himself a glass of orange juice and sat at the counter. He set the glass of orange juice down, but didn't pick it up again to drink. He felt so drained from throwing up so many times. He wanted to find any comfortable surface and sleep the physical pain off. He found that sleep was the best way to avoid depression and his cravings. He couldn't sleep anymore, no matter how much he wanted to. His body simply refused to, even though he was drained and needed to recover.

"What a mess I've gotten myself into." He mumbled unintelligibly as he reluctantly picked up the glass and sipped it slowly.

Orange juice had a way revitalizing a person and awakening their senses. Scott experienced this and couldn't help from gulping the juice faster. He slowed himself slightly, remembering how sensitive his stomach had to be. He finished off the juice at a snail's pace, but his stomach reacted violently. With a burst of strength he didn't know he still possessed, he ran to the sink and leaned over it. He retched, and almost slid to the floor. His entire weight was against the counter and the sink. Any strength he'd gained from the juice was absolutely gone.

He was surprised that he was still conscious and standing from the way he felt. He was even more surprised to see a large hand reach over and turn the water on, washing the vomit away, and to feel two strong arms lift him up and carry him into the next room, which had comfortable couches. He was placed onto one of those comfortable couches and a soft pillow was placed beneath his head.

Scott's eyes had fallen shut as his mind accepted the comforting human touch from whoever had come to aid him, but they opened slowly as a throw blanket was placed over his weak form.

"Logan?" He blinked, trying to make sure his eyes weren't fooling him.

"Hey there, kid." Logan sat down where Scott's legs were, giving the younger man a comforting pat on the side. "You look like crap."

"No shit, Sherlock." Scott muttered, using his elbows to push himself up and get a better view of the room and Logan. "I feel like crap." He groaned, not having the strength to hold himself up. He slumped back down to a lying position, and then curled up as best he could with Logan sitting there. He groaned, feeling cramps creep up his calf and thigh muscles.

"What happened?" Logan asked, getting straight to the point. He knew what was going on; his animal senses hadn't failed him. He could smell the vestiges of something in Scott's system. He knew it was probably drugs, and the kid was going through withdrawals. He made a note to talk to the professor about getting Scott some help, in whatever form was necessary for him.

"Crack happened." Scott snapped. "Whatever the hell you think you know, just shut up," He added, when Logan seemed about to speak. "It helped, damn it, it helped. And now, I don't want to have to be depending on it, but I really need it, but I can't leave because I promised the professor I'd stay, but I need it." His words were running together, and were barely understandable, but Logan got the gist of it.

"Hey! Kid." Logan got his attention easily. "Just stay here. You're going to be okay. You don't want the drugs; you won't have the drugs. We're going to get you clean." He was surprised at the amount of friendly-touchy-feely 'nonsense' that was spilling out of his mouth. "Okay, Scott?" He still had some form of contempt or disappointment or something with the man, but he had learned from a good man that some people didn't deserve second chances, but you gave second chances anyway. Scott definitely fit the bill. He hadn't exactly been Boy Scout material, but he was going to get the second chance he needed to survive.

Scott looked at his old rival distrustfully, glaring as best as he could with weakened limbs. The glare fell away; he didn't have the energy. "All of this is going to go away?" His weak fingers reached out for Logan's wrist and found it. He clung to it. "You promise?" He felt like a child. "'Cause I'll kick your ass if you're lying." Not so much like a child.

Logan smirked and pulled his hand from Scott's grasp. "I promise. Now get some sleep. I'm going to talk to the Professor."

Scott promptly fell asleep with the promise that his agony would end. He would sleep for that, and as long as his body would allow it.

Scott's eyes opened, and suddenly, he was in a white room. He was dressed in white clothing, but his eyes didn't hurt from the stark color. In fact, he enjoyed the cleanliness. He was completely alone in a room, and he didn't mind. There was no more pain, no more drug cravings, and no more harmful memories of everything he'd lost.

A woman appeared in the form of Jean. She was in a white dress, reminiscent of a wedding gown, and she joined him. She touched his face and kissed him with love. Their hands suddenly joined and they stood, looking into each other's faces.

"I love you." He murmured.

"You are pathetic." His beautiful Jean suddenly morphed into that blasted blue-skinned creature, Mystique. She wrapped her hands around his neck, almost gently, and made to choke him to death.

He woke up shivering, and his stomach heaved. "Oh God, gonna…" A gentle hand touched the back of his neck and pushed his hair back away from his face as he threw up into a garbage bag. A loving hand stroked his cheek and murmured gentle words into his ear. He threw up several more times and laid back, his stomach still unsettled, but he felt no more need to vomit more of his stomach's bile.

"Scott, I need you to drink this broth. Sip it." Ororo's voice instructed him firmly.

He obeyed her without words and sipped at the mug she placed at his lips, reaching up weakly to try and help hold the mug. Ororo's gentle hand continued to stroke his hair and forehead, her warm body beside him on the couch. When he had finished all of the meager serving of broth, he leaned his head against her lap, which was closest to where his head was when he was lying down. She helped him sit up and slid underneath his back so his head would be lying on her crossed legs.

"I don't feel so well, Ororo." Scott admitted wearily.

Ororo smiled down at him. "I know, Scott. That's why you have to rest now. I know all of those toxins leaving your body, and not being put back in is a terrible process, but you will be alright." She bent down and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

He nodded, and turned his head for a more comfortable sleeping position. He fell asleep once again.

When Scott woke up once more, he was no longer in the sitting room. Instead, he was back in the guest room bed, and Professor Xavier was sitting at his bedside. The room was softly filled with the sound of classical music being played on a boom box on his nightstand. The professor didn't know he had awakened; his eyes were fixed on the large novel in his hands. If he squinted, he could almost read the title, but his eyes were blurry.

"Professor…" Scott groaned. "Why are you here?"

"Ah, Scott." Charles Xavier smiled in relief; his son was awake. "I was worried for you, and I wanted to be here so we could talk when you are ready. Not talk about what you are feeling, but our options to get you clean. That is what you want, correct?"

"Oh God, yes, just make this stop." He felt himself hating the entire world and himself in that moment. The agitation at himself… the muscle pain… the nausea and vomiting… all typical signs of drug, specifically cocaine, withdrawals. The enhanced depression, he thought, disassociating himself with the situation for a moment, was even a sign, though the depression had been a constant throughout his entire life.

Charles wheeled himself closer to the bed, placing a hand on his son's shoulder. "Then we will do everything we can. Any and every method of rehabilitation will be available to you. I have faith in you, Scott. You can do this." He smiled grimly. It hurt Xavier, and everyone who knew of Scott still at the mansion, that a beloved man so close to them all was hurting physically and emotionally.

Goodness, this was going to be a longer road than anyone had expected.

"Thank you." Scott mumbled, closing his eyes against the world. "This hurts so much. I can't believe I've done this to myself. I'm a failure, Charles. A failure. I owe it to Jean to take care of myself, but I've destroyed myself." A few tears escaped through his closed lids and trailed down into the pillow. "I'm worthless."

"Scott, there's nothing I could ever say to you to prove to you otherwise. You're going to have to discover for yourself that what you've done has no reflection on who and what you are. You are a good man, and only did what was necessary to survive." The professor, the caretaker of every young child who entered his halls, smiled at his favorite son, and took Scott's hand. "Just rest now, Scott. Tomorrow's troubles will come tomorrow. You need to rest and regain all of that energy you've lost. A meal will be waiting for you when you wake up. Bobby, Ororo or myself will be there."

"What about Logan?" Scott found himself asking.

Charles smiled as the sound of a toilet flushing entered the room. The door to the bathroom opened, and Logan stepped out. "Sorry, did I miss anything?"

"He's been here the entire time." Charles answered with a fond smile. "I'll leave you two alone."

Scott turned over onto his side, facing the bedside table. Logan pulled a chair up and sat near the bed. Both men were quiet, and the classical music still chimed in the background. It was a soothing blend of soft piano solos and ensembles of flutes, clarinets and other pipe-like instruments. He recognized it as one of his own. His lips quirked slightly at the recognition and closed his eyes.

"Scott, what the hell happened to you?" Logan wondered aloud. "You are so… "

"Messed up?" Scott offered glumly.

"Different, but we can use yours too." The Wolverine growled at the thought. "What happened to you?"

Scott sighed, opening his eyes a crack. "You wouldn't understand how much I loved her, and how much I needed her. I knew her better than I knew myself, and she knew me better than I could comprehend. Life's never been easy, but she made it tolerable. She was a constant strength that I drew from, and I lived because of her. There really was never another reason." He explained, his words coming slowly and slightly slurred because of his illness and his muscle weakness. "And when she was gone… I had to leave. I couldn't survive in our world when she wasn't there."

Logan nodded, but didn't interject. Scott needed to express the last seven years. Not for Logan, the professor or anyone else but himself. He needed to work some things out as they cleaned his body and mind of the need for cocaine.

"So I ran. I tried everything to forget her, or to at least make things stop hurting." Scott's voice dropped to a whisper, and Logan could only hear him due to his heightened senses. "Crack made things stopped hurting. God, it made me feel good for once. I was hooked from the start. I wouldn't eat. Instead, I would buy crack. I think I lost twenty pounds in the first year, which was…" He mentally calculated the time. "Four years ago, I think. I need the drug. It's either cocaine or Jean, and I don't have either, and I don't know how to cope."

Logan nodded. He didn't understand, not at all. He had no idea of the pain Scott had gone through, simply because he had never loved anyone like Scott had loved Jean. He had loved Jean, in his own, but his love seemed like a cheap infatuation to the depth of the soul connection that Scott and Jean had shared. He'd always known it, but seeing the wreck that Scott was without Jean, he wondered how the man was going to survive.

"Damn it, Logan, help me up." Scott groaned.

"Oh, I don't think so, Scooter." Logan's eyebrow rose.

"At least get me a couple aspirin, then." He negotiated.

I don't think so, Scott.

Scott swore venomously. "Damn it, he listens to everything." He slumped back into the bed, before his temper flared again. "No one understands how much I need those drugs! Get away from me!" He yelled at Logan, who was trying to calm him down. "Just get out of my way. I'm fine!"

Scott threw the covers from his body and stood up. He steadied himself against the wall after he'd stumbled a few feet forward. Then, he promptly collapsed, his legs not cooperating with his mind's intense need for cocaine. Whatever small control he still had over his emotions crumbled, and he was reduced to sobbing into Logan's chest, blubbering unintelligibly.

Logan set Scott down into the bed, plopping down on the edge, letting the younger man get every tear out. Scott trembled and shook, vomiting small amounts of broth and stomach fluid. Logan cleaned it up with a washcloth that was in a bowl of warm water on the bedside table. He gathered up the former leader of the X-Men in his arms, and Scott clung to him. Scott shuddered, and slowly pulled away.

"You need to get some sleep."

"No… I don't…" Scott muttered. "I need… drugs…" The last statement came out as a desperate moan, one last plea for salvation.

"I'm sorry." Logan pulled the covers over Scott's body and turned off the lamp, but left the music on. It seemed to soothe them both. "I can't."

"I hate you." Scott managed to say before he fell back into sleep.

"Thanks, Summers." Logan smiled fondly in the dark. "You too."