For as long as Scott could remember, mornings had been synonymous with running. When he was a boy, he ran with his father. Then when his father was gone, with Alex, like his father would've wanted him to. Then he ran alone, for a long time, trying not to think of where Alex might be or what he might be doing. He had to be the strong one then, to take care of his mother, to carry on the Summers name.
The only thing that slowed him down was his eyes. The blindfold wrapped around his head several times. It was tight like a vise, but he didn't mind the pressure. It meant no more destruction. But the first thing the Professor did was loosen it. Just a little.
He came to think of them as his world, the Professor and Mr. Lensharr. The Professor's voice, British accent, warm, paternal. Mr. Lensharr's, Americanized with something foreign in it that he couldn't place, avuncular at times, charismatic, but acidic as well. For a time, they were the only two voices Scott heard, despite the radio the Professor gifted him with.
Scott only took the blindfold off for testing, opening his eye at the smallest fraction, seeing if some new material would survive the test. But it never did. Some days he wanted to tear it off and look up at the sky, see if he could drain all the energy out of himself. But no, there might be a plane or a bird in the way… or a space station. It wouldn't work anyway. Mr. Lensharr said that if he used up all his energy, he'd probably drop dead. It was a chance Scott was almost willing to take.
He started running again. First a walk around the campus. His pace growing each morning as he memorized the path. Each footfall, each corresponding echo. He was running again! The Professor looked after him some days, guiding him and conversing with him mentally. Or Mr. Lensharr, occasionally impeding his path with metal, never anything too serious, just testing Scott's limits.
Then Jean came and he resented her for a time. Mr. Lensharr and the Professor couldn't get enough of her. They even talked about her to him. He couldn't blame them. Her powers were much more fascinating, much easier to control. But then he heard her footfalls behind him on the trail and that was the last straw.
He whirled around, skidding to a quick stop. She nearly bowled him over, but he didn't move. He just let her stop a few inches from him.
"Why are you following me?"
Her voice wasn't… girly. It was husky, solemn. Not masculine, but tinged with something smoky and… amused. Yes, amused at him. "I'm sorry, I didn't see your name on this path."
Inwardly, he seethed. The red on the inside of his eyelids grew a bit brighter. "Maybe you should wait a while. Start running when I'm finished so we're both less crowded."
"Or you could wait."
He gritted his teeth, wondering if she noticed his distress. "Fine. I'll wait, you go on ahead."
Scott sat down against a rock, waiting for the sound of Jean's footsteps leading away into nothingness. They didn't. Instead, he heard her grow closer, then the back of her shirt against the rock as she slid down beside him.
"I think I'll take a break too. Cramp."
Any minute now, lasers were going to burn through his eyelids and incinerate whatever it was he was looking at. Any minute. "Why are you following me?"
"I've never seen another mutant my own age. Are your eyes…"
"Red." He answered quickly, subconsciously adjusting the blindfold. "She told me they were red."
"Who did?"
"The girl I was looking at when it happened." His voice must've gotten across the rest of the story, because she stopped pressing the point.
"You know what we're having for dinner tonight?"
"Mr. Lensharr's in charge of cooking, so either leftovers, a stew, or take-out. I'd estimate a seventy percent chance of take-out." He could feel her wondering stare on him. "No leftovers in the fridge."
"Seventy percent."
"You're not reading my mind, are you?" It was a sudden, irrational anxiety.
"Nope. Not allowed. Unless you want me to."
"Maybe later." He could smell her now, just above the smells of autumn and the scent of lemon-pine mop-water wafting out the windows where the cleaning crew did their work. She smelled like perfume, subtle and charming, a dash of rosemary then sweat and heat. He hadn't realized heat had a scent until he met her. "What do you look like?" he wondered out loud.
"Here," she said, taking his hands in hers. Before he could protest, his hands were on either side of her face. He felt coolness on his heated palms, a twitch in her cheek as she smiled, and finally the fullness of her lips where his thumb passed over them. The moment he took his hands away she was pulling him to his feet.
"Are we going to run, Summers, or are we going to chat all day?"
He suppressed the urge to reach out and trace the contours of her face once more, hoping like hell she was telling the truth about not reading his mind. He started running again, retracing his path around the mansion. The sound of her following filled the world, mirroring his own footfalls. He sensed it wouldn't be the last time. It was… comforting, after a fashion. Like there was someone else in the redness he lived.
Scott clenched his hands into fists. His palms still smelled of rosemary.