He was supposed to be perfect. To be their boy scout -- the one they could all look to, when they needed to know where to go, what road to take.
Hell, he never had been a boy scout. Never had been perfect. He had a criminal record -- could probably give Toad a run for his money as for as time spent in Juvie. Juvenile Hall. He couldn't call it Juvie, not out loud at least. He didn't do that.
He almost wanted to laugh sometimes, watching them run around him, make fun of him and his perfect ways. Claim he could never understand their problems, that he had never had any trouble accepting who he was, what he was.
He'd probably had the most trouble out of all of them. Except perhaps Kurt. Kurt had them all topped.
He hadn't been a nice person, back then. Back before Xavier had made his offer. He'd been a junkie, an alcoholic. He knew it -- knew he had a problem saying no. Knew he shouldn't take that extra shot, that hit of some drug or another. But it wasn't until Charles Xavier came along that anything in his life seemed to make any sort of sense.
Without this school? Without the Institute? He was nothing -- just another junkie well on his way to a life in the penal system. That was why he was pefrect, why he tried so damn hard to be the perfect pupil, the perfect leader for all of them. He had to be -- unlike the rest of them, he didn't have anywhere else to go.
Just back to the streets.
It wasn't that he agreed with Charles Xavier; if anything, he agreed with Mystique. Maybe not some of her methods, but with the general spiel. Mutants and humans? They had proven time and again they couldn't coexist peacefully. Human beings? They weren't accepting of those different from them; never had been, never would be. But he had a good thing going here; a shiny red sports car, his own credit card. Gas paid for, always a full stomach. And he wasn't willing to give that up for his ideals. He wasn't that type of person.
They thought he was. Thought he was the perfect boy scout, that he would always do the right thing. It wasn't quite that; he would always do what Xavier thought was the right thing. He couldn't chance being thrown out, being looked down upon.
Not that Professor Xavier knew. He'd taught his star pupil from the very start how to block his mind from telepath's -- taught him a bit too well. Even he couldn't access the mind of one of his first students. And Scott Summers preferred it that way.
Things had been quiet lately; The Brotherhood hadn't made any threatening moves, and Mystique had been surpisingly quiet. Kurt was still reeling from the realization she was his mother, at least in blood, and Rogue was being as difficult as always. Other than that, however, things were relatively quiet; people had finally stopped commenting on his glasses, seeming to at last accept his explanation of an eye condition.
Maybe that was why the sudden silence when he walked into the Institute was so unnerving. Most of the other students had congregated in the living room, and Scott joined them there as he came in from working on his car. It was quiet for a Saturday -- with so many teenagers grouped together in one place, there was usually some sort of mischief being made.
With the vague impression that talking had ceased as soon as he had approached the room, Scott crossed his arms over his chest, raising one eyebrow -- even if the effect was lost because his glasses. "What's going on?" A slight twist of his lips accompanied the question, but he didn't quite expect the uneasy silence that met his words. Even Jean looked guilty, sitting on the couch next to Kitty and twisting her fingers together in her lap.
That was surprising. He'd known Jean longer than any of the others -- she'd arrived a couple of months after him, and for a while it had only been the two of them here. And he knew that she didn't normally get worked up over nothing.
"What happened?" There was concern laced in his words now, the smile gone as he let his arms fall to his sides.
"I--" Jean paused, licking her lips, shifting in her seat before starting again. "I didn't mean-- I shouldn't have listened, Scott. I'm sorry." The last was barely more than a whisper, and Scott frowned, completely confused at this point.
"Dude, you were in Juvie?" That from Spyke, and it took Scott a moment to register that the other teen was talking to him. His confusion must have registered on his face, for Jean spoke up almost immediately.
"W-we -- I mean, that is, I heard the Professor talking to your ... your social worker. She seems nice."
Scott slowly drew in a deep breath, eyes closed as he slowly exhaled. "Sheila's here?"
"Dude, what'd you go to get into Juvie? What, you steal a candy bar when you were six or something?" Spyke grinned at his own joke, but Scott merely rolled his eyes, knowing the other boy couldn't see it behind his glasses. Instead, he turned his head so it was obvious he was speaking to Jean, shifting his weight to his right foot impatiently.
"Y-yeah. She's still talking to th-" Before Jean could finish speaking, the sound of a door slamming open, followed by Professor Xavier's voice, raised in anger, floated down to them. "Ms. Covington, please, if you could just --"
"Not another word, Mr. Xavier. He comes with me. Now."
Scott stiffened at those words, eyes narrowing slightly as he turned so his back was to the other students, not the door he knew his social worker would be coming through at any moment. He wasn't disappointed.
Sheila Covington was of average height -- perhaps a little taller than Jean, though Scott had never bothered to find out how tall, exactly, she was. Her mouse-brown hair was cropped close to her shoulders, falling just as board straight as he remembered it. It had been over two years since he had last seen the woman; having stayed out of trouble all that time, there had been no reason for the visits he had had to live through in the past, in his various foster homes. They had always thought there was a reason he was skipping class; had immediately assumed something illicit was going on.
And they were usually right.
Now, however, her visit remained a mystery as she came slamming in to the room, brown eyes narrowed in anger as she took in the room at large, widening slightly as she took in his attire; not quite what she had been expecting.
How had he dressed, back then? As a hoodlum, a street rat, hooded sweatshirts and dark jeans, usually combat boots. Never anything fancy, never anything expensive; he had never been lucky enough to get foster parents who treated him as one of their own. He had never attempted to dress as he was now; he knew how he looked. Like a rich kid, one of those straight-A nancy boys he and his friends had made fun of at his last school. It had been mostly jealousy, although thre had been some general dislike for the boys -- most of them wouldn't give him the time of day, with his scruffed up boots and jeans with holes in them.
Sheila had been his case worker back then, as well, coming around about once a week -- her or somebody else from her large, stuffy office with too many pictures of her nieces and nephews. He'd asked her once if she kept so many pictures because she didn't have any kids of her own. It was only later, after she had thrown him out of her office in a fit of anger, that he had learned she was barren. It was what had caused her marraige to break up, 8 or 9 years ago. Right before she had taken over his case. He'd felt a little guilty then, but the cat was already out of fthe bag; it was common for him to bring it up now, when he wanted to get a rise out of her.
It was easier to get thrown out of her office, then lisen to her prattle on and on about how he was screwig up his life.
"Sheila," Scott spoke softly, unsure what to say, how to react to her now, after all this time. The last time they had spoken, had been the day Professor Xavier had come to take him away. She had been all for a school for gifted youngsters, completely believing the spiel Professor Xavier had spun for her.
"Get your things, Scottie. You're leaving." Scott stiffened at her words, and Sheila pursed her lips at the movement, remembering well how volatile the young man had been in his youth. True, he looked like he had shaped up during his time here; maybe even started taking school seriously. She certainly hadn't gotten any reports of excessive tardiness or unexplained absences from school.
A snort of amusement came from behind him, and Scott winced internally at the nickname; he hadn't used it since Jean had first come to the institute, preferring to go by Scott. It was his old friends in Bridgeport who had first started calling him Scottie, and the nickname had stuck rather well.
When he didn't move immediately, Sheila reached forward, gripping his upper right arm and yanking him forward, beginning to move out of the room. It was only then that her words truly registered in his brain, and Scott's eyes widened.
Leaving. She expected him to leave. "W-wait. What d'you mean, leaving?" He followed after her obediently for a moment, only stopping when she didn't respond.
"I'll explain once we're in the car. Just get your things, Scott." Sheila's voice held more than a touch of impatience, and it was written all over her mouse-like face.
Looking helplessly over at Professor Xavier, Scott's heart nearly plummeted to his feet at the small shake of the head he received in response. Just go with her for now, Scott. I'll find out what this is about. You'll be back soon. I promise. He knew Sheila couldn't hear the Professor's voice, but she still glanced between them uneasily, lips pressed into a thin line. She used to be much better at hiding her aggravation ...
But people changed. He was living proof of that.
Nobody followed them as they made their way up to his bedroom, and Scott was silently thankful for that. Nothing was said between the two as Scott searched through his closet for an old duffel bag. It wasn't the one he had used when he first came here, although that was shoved even further into the back of his closet. This, like the rest of this things, was from Professor Xavier -- a part of his new life. Most of his old things he had either thrown away or stored as far away from himself as he could.
It was to these newer things that he went now, packing each article of clothing carefully as Sheila sat on his bed, staring around the room with barely concealed curiosity. It was a far cry from the foster homes of the past; large and spacious, it was all his; four poster bed, relatively new laptop computer on the desk against the wall, mp3 player laid atop that. His school bag he unceremoniously emptied onto the bed, grabbing the notebooks that landed with his science and math books; if there was one thing he remembered from his time in the System, it was how quickly they had gotten him situated in a new school after each and every one of his moves.
The laptop he slipped into the now empty backpack, his mp3 player sliding into the pocket of his jacket, slung across the back of his chair. His wallet found it's way into his back pocket, his cell phone thrown in atop the laptop. A quick zip here, a snap there, and he was ready to go.
Sheila stood up as he finished, frowning as she look over the duffel bag slung over one shoulder, the backpack held in a loose grip. It was more than he usually had for a move from house to house, however, so he merely frowned back at her in confusion. Sheila made no comment, however, merely turned swiftly on her heel and stalking to the door, holding it open for him with a raised eyebrow.
They had been driving for two hours, and already Scott missed his convertible. True, it wasn't practical on the many rainy and snowy days that New York saw -- not to mention during the winter. But at least then he would have something to focus his attention on; as it was, all he could do was think about where they were headed -- his mind going in circles, unable to calm down.
He hated Bridgeport. Even while he had been living there, he had held a general dislike for the town; the people who barely even noticed him, just another face on the streets. And it wasn't s a safe town by any measure. Bridgeport was far too city, and far to close to New York for that.
But Bridgeport had been, above all, his favorite place to live. It wasn't about the city, about the friends he had made. No, it was all about Mikh.
14. That was how old he was when he had been sent to stay at the foster home in Bridgeport, Connecticut. He hadn't gone straight to stay with Mikhail; there had been channels to go through. The bad before the good, and all that rot.
Head leaning against the window as they drove along, Scott couldn't help but smile as he remembered those first few days with Mikh.
The man had rented an old warehouse, fixed it up until even Social Services could find nothing wrong with it. It was small, as far as warehouses went, and not exactly the most beautiful of structures on the outside. But inside . . . inside it had been an entirely different affair. Large and spacious, it had taken him a while to get used to the lack of personal space. True, they were both men -- but it still left something to be desired.
And it had always been so bright. His friends had teased him, that Mikh must have been gay to decorate their house the way he did.
Actually, come to think of it, the man had never shown a preference either way. His entire life had seemed to revolve around Scott; the never ending battle of trying to keep him out of trouble.
And for the most part, failing miserably.
He had finally fallen asleep. Sheila breathed a sigh of relief as she glanced at her young passenger, eyes quickly returning to the road.
He was so different. It hadn't been that long, really, since she had last picked him up at the police station for one reason or another, brought him back to his foster father. He'd had a good home there; they'd been unsure, at first, placing him with a single man.
But there had been no doubt after the first couple of months. They belong together, Scott Summers and Mikhail Fraser; more than Scott had ever belonged anywhere else she had tried to place him.
Not many people wanted to take in a teenage boy, especially not one who got in to as much trouble as Scott had. Some of it was just normal teenage roughhousing gone a bit too far, but more often than not their was a sinister element behind it all.
The boy knew how to attract trouble, that was for sure.
Letting out a soft sigh, Sheila glanced once again at her young companion, smiling at the way he had wrapped his arms around his middle, shifting toward the passenger side door and leaning his head against the window. It was position he'd taken often enough, years ago when she would drive him from one house to another, all in the hopes of finding even a short-term placement.
But he wasn't a child anymore. He had grown in the few short years since she had last seem Scott; grown taller, if not fatter. He'd always been so skinny; even now that he was getting plenty to eat that hadn't changed.
And he was certainly getting enough to eat. That house --! She hadn't known, had never actually been there. After all, Mikhail hadn't just fostered Scott; he'd adopted him. She had no say in where he sent his son to school.
Not until he had contacted her, asking for her help.
She wasn't here in her official capacity – no. Actually, she could very well lose her license for doing this. But Mikhail had been so adamant; and his fears did not seem totally unfounded.
She'd done her homework; this Xavier fellow had some impressive schooling, and all his papers were in order to run a school of this nature.
But he also had some shady dealings in his past. Claims of manipulation, of spending a bitat too much time with young boys.
Nothing had ever been proven, of course. He couldn't have opened the school he had, otherwise. But the mere speculation was enough to raise warning alarms in Sheila's mind.
And they had sent Scottie to him.
Sheila let loose a small sigh, hands tightening around the steering wheel as she once again glanced at the sleeping teenager.
He had always been a good kid; a bit rough, though that wasn't surprising considering his past. It was the usual with the children she saw pass through her office; far too many of them ended up in Juvenile Hall for her liking, and for a while it had appeared that was what would happen with Scott Summers.
But he had gotten his act together; had buckled down and actually seemed to be taking school seriously. And she had been proud of him, even if she only ever spoke with Charles Xavier or one of the other teachers at his school. Usually Aurora Monroe, through she had gotten Hank McCoy more and more lately.
And the reports she had gotten were always good; he was working on his car, he was doing his homework, he was helping make dinner. Always helping – he rarely seemed to take any down time, and she had worried at first he would burn himself out, wreck another amazing oppurtunity.
But, no. For over two years now, he had proven himself "redeemed" -- Xavier's words, and though the wording hadn't been what she would have used, she had been proud of Scott all the same.
But perhaps she should have worried more.
"Scott? "
Scott jerked awake, blinking fuzzily as he turned to stare at his case worker, sleepily wondering why she didn't even glance at him after having woken him up so rudely; and for no apparent reason, as they were still driving on the highway.
"Scott? Are you awake?" Scott grinned, rolling his eyes behind his glasses as he recognized the voice of Jean.
"Well, now I am." He thought with a grin, knowing the other teenager could receive feelings as well as thoughts through the link; she heard it exactly as if he had said it, she had once told him.
A soft laugh tickled through the link, and Scott smiled now at the familiar sensation. The familiarity was soothing, allowing him to relax more fully against the door and close his eyes.
"Are you alright?" The question surprised Scott, though perhaps in retrospect it shouldn't have. He had been forced to leave rather abruptly; he would have worried for any of the others, in a similar situation. Though he didn't have Jean's ... unique gift for getting to the bottom of things.
"What did the professor tell you?" He was a bit worried on that end; what might have been shared, what the man had decided to keep secret. It really wasn't that big of a deal, him having a case worker; none of the other students had ever dealt with the foster care system, save perhaps Rogue, and so they couldn't know what was normal and what wasn't.
But there were other things he would rather none of them knew; things about his past he had tried to hide from even Xavier. The man knew some, he knew. Had weasled all he could out of his favorite student's mind before Scott had learned to shut him out forever.
And he never wanted to see that look of disappointment in Jean's eyes.
"Nothing!" Scott could hear the frustration in Jean's voice, and he smiled slightly. Wasn't used to being denied anything from her precious professor, was she?
"Scott, this isn't funny! Where are you?" Scott forced himself to remain silent, acutely aware of Sheila sitting next to him. What would she say if he suddenly started laughing? The last thing he wanted was his mental state questioned – again.
"I'm fine, Jean.Really."
" Scott ..."
"We're on the highway, Jean. Everything's fine; I'm sure I'll be back in a couple of days, top. I'll let you know when I find out anything else, alright?"
That seemed to satisfy Jean, as he got the sudden sensation of warmth through the link. Ah, the telepathic hug. Those he had missed perhaps the most, as these conversations had dwindled down to nothingness in the past couple of months.
It seemed they were always busy, always had something more important to do than just talk – even if it was only telepathically.
"I know. I've missed this too." Scott smiled at the words, sending a silent apology over the link as he raised his shields a little higher, feeling the frustration on Jean's part through the smaller link as she was unable to access his deeper thoughts – just what he intentionally sent her way.
"Scott-"
Scott sent a wave of annoyance over the link, shifting into a more comfortable position against the door of the car. "I'll call you when we get there, Jean."
He must have fallen asleep again, for the next thing he knew Scott was being shaken awake by Sheila. Blinking fuzzily, he practically tumbled from the car, grumbling softly at the soft laugh that earned from his case worker.
"Come on, let's get inside. Your father's probably hyperventilating by this point." There was amusement in her voice, and it took a couple of seconds for Scott's brain to actually process what she had said. By the time it did, he was already halfway toward the door of a familiar warehouse, and he stopped dead in his tracks as he turned to stare at his caseworker with a mixture of horror and fear.
"What-"
Sheila didn't wait for him to speak, merely started walking toward the front door. It was on her third knock that Scott snapped out of his shock enough to take a step back toward the car, arms crossing defensively over his chest.
How long had it been since he was here? A few years? Not long enough – not long enough for the hurt of denial to go away.
He had always known Mikh would tire of him eventually; that at some point he would grow too troublesome for the man. He just hadn't expected it to happen quite the way it had. Hadn't expected it to be because of his Powers.
And Sheila obviously didn't understand that. Mikh, at least, knew why he had been sent away; why they no longer spoke, wrote, any of it. There had been rumors, of course, before he had been sent away that the man was considering actually adopting him. Nothing had ever happened with it; not after the disaster he had made of revealing his Powers.
It was alright, though. Mikh had reacted better than some; had never hurt him, hadn't even yelled at him. Just sent him away. All in all, a rather civilized way of handling things.
So why bring him back here? Sheila was going to be disappointed, if she thought she would elicit some kind of happy father-and-son reunion.
As the door crept open, Scott found himself stiffening involuntarily, hands curling into fists as he watched Mikhail step out into the sunshine and warmth of the fall afternoon.
He'd forgotten just how beautiful Connecticut could be at this time of year; even in this rundown area. Far more beautiful that New York had ever appeared to him. Then again, perhaps it was just the sight of Home that tugged at him so.
Either way, Mikhail was staring at him now, dark eyes narrowed slightly as he said something to Sheila. Probably reprimanding her for bringing him here.
Nor surprising.
"He's been quiet." Sheila admitted softly, smiling at the concern etched on Mikhail Fraser's face. He was watching Scott still, and barely even seemed to notice her response for a moment. Finally, however, he dragged his eyes away from the teen to flash a smile down at the woman.
Sheila had always been tall her entire life; it was odd, to find somebody she had to look up to. But she did with Mikhail. Tall and well built, she had been afraid he wouldn't understand how to deal with a child of Scott's special needs.
But he had proved her wrong easily enough; and Scott had clung to him like he hadn't to any of his other foster parents. True, most of those had only taken him in for the monthly check that came with him.
"And Xavier? How long do you think we have before he catches on?" Sheila sighed at the question, shifting uncomfortably.
"A day, maybe two?" Shrugging her slender shoulders, she smiled up at the rather young man, though it didn't quite reach her eyes.
"Do you think he will contact ..."
Sheila cut him off with a wave of her hand, her smile now a sad imitation of even what had graced her face before. "Don't worry about it, Mikhail. Just take care of Scott."
Mikhail nodded, drawing a deep breath before starting toward Scott.