Title: fugue
Author: swik
Summary: Scott tries to process his loss in the weeks following Jean's death at Alkali Lake. (Takes place in the aftermath of "X2: X-Men United.")
Note: Readers who remember the days of Claremont and Byrne's Hellfire/Dark Phoenix arc will note the inspiration from ish #132. I haven't duplicated the exact scene as such here, but there's enough similarity to acknowledge the homage...
Disclaimers: Based on the 2003 sequel, "X2: X-Men United." If Bryan Singer and David Hayter won't give me enough Cyclops in the flick, I'll do it myself. As always, the characters are not my property and are borrowed without permission. I'll be returning them a tad disheveled, but still in good working order.
She came, she saw, she edited, she improved. To KW -- a lifetime supply of thanks. And a pint or two of Ben & Jerry's...
***************************
"Whoso regardeth dreams is like him that catcheth at a shadow, and followeth after the wind."
-- Apocrypha: Ecclesiasticus 34:2
***************************
He took Jean shopping down at the Westchester Promenade on Labor Day weekend. A shoe sale at Macy's, she claimed, an exchange at Old Navy, or some such nonsense. Really, Scott knew it was just an excuse to steal some time away from the school. Away from the stress, the demands. Away from saving the world. Just the two of them, alone.
Scott was game and the day passed more quickly than he would have imagined. Being with her. Watching her. Listening to her. Indulging in the simple pleasures of her company.
By late afternoon, they were back in the car, heading up I-684 to the county highway that would lead them back home. He had given her a free hand with his CD player and a medley of her favorite tunes sparkled in the air. Coldplay, The Calling, No Doubt. A warm summer breeze rushed through the windows and whipped Jean's hair into a burnished tangle. She didn't seem to mind.
Off the interstate, they came to a brief halt at a stop sign. Scott found himself glancing absently at the money-green Corvette easing up to his left.
The pert blond driving it arched a brow and gave them the once-over. First the car, then him. The blatant admiration in her gaze might have been appealing if it weren't quite so predatory.
He looked back at Jean with a bored expression.
"Bet you can't guess what she's thinking," she said, lips twitching.
"No," he replied, with just a trace of disapproval. "But I'm sure you're going to tell me."
"Nice shades," Jean drawled. Then, she winked at him playfully, letting him know without words that there was never a need to invade the blond's privacy. Her thoughts were as transparent as an open Cosmo.
With a supple shift, Jean dragged a finger up her thigh to the edge of her skirt, teasing him. He felt the warmth of her amusement bolt along his spine, directly into his brain.
She was truly one of a kind.
Impulsively, Scott smiled. Laughter bubbled up from the buried emotional reserve that he sometimes preferred to forget existed.
But not today.
Unable to contain himself, he floored it. The car shot forward so swiftly that he missed any chance of seeing the blond's reaction.
Scott couldn't have cared less.
Because both of them were laughing too hard to stop now. The patchwork landscape of forest and field blurred as the miles screamed past. The music rocked. He pushed it to a leisurely eighty-five miles an hour.
Then, without any warning, he spun the wheel, wrestling the RX8 to the side of the road near a deserted stretch of woods. Before Jean could react, he was out of his seat and climbing into her lap with a dexterity that would make a contortionist weep.
"Scott..."
Her gasp of surprise quickly morphed into a sigh of welcome as he grasped her chin and took her mouth. He went for it -- quick, hot; a kiss wild enough to rattle the fillings in her teeth.
Her fingers twisted in his hair; her tongue slid against his. In a heartbeat, Scott was breathless. Her hips rose between his legs...
And then Jean's pleasure bloomed inside his mind -- a bright flare of passion and need that always took this experience beyond the mere mortal for him.
Seconds passed, then minutes. Slow, soft, wet, determined -- Scott kissed them both into madness.
When he finally came up for air, she met his gaze without flinching. Her eyes were dreamy, unfocused. He wished for nothing more than to drown himself in them.
"Are we there yet?" he whispered. His fingers drifted slowly to the sweet spot where her breast met the side of her body.
Jean thrust her lower lip out provocatively. "We would be if you'd get your ass back into that seat and drive us home, tough guy."
With a grin, Scott gave her nose a last quick kiss and did as she asked.
He put the car in gear and pulled back out onto the highway in a rain of dust and gravel.
"Home," she murmured, leaning back in her seat. She turned her head to look at him--
And something shifted abruptly. Strange. An awareness he could not name -- like a shadow drifting across the sun. A chill crept over him. Scott had to strain to hear her over the blare of music.
"Home," he replied firmly, giving himself a quick shake. He glanced back, raising her hand to his lips.
It was fine. She was fine. Everything was going to be fine.
Jean's fingers slipped from his grasp. Shocked, Scott felt a sudden rupture deep inside -- a terrible shaft of loss.
Reality seized all around him--
He wakes with a gasp, dazed and confused, into a peaceful world of heat and light, wondering how in the hell he got here.
Stirring, Scott struggles to draw that first raw breath. His eyes skip over the familiar shapes inside the room.
Her stack of medical journals. His scattered Green Day CDs. The multihued swatches of fabric she was piecing together into X shirts for the latest crop of students. All their earthly possessions, favorite things, coated with the glow of a late afternoon sun.
And tainted always by the red; an odd hue this time. Ruby quartz turns the golden haze into a sickly wash of amber and brown -- like the color of rotting fruit.
Home, he thinks. Home.
Scott scrapes a hand over the stubble on his jaw. He glances at the clock. With a groan, he burrows into the softness of the bed and prays for a return to sleep.
It is too late though. He's been under for a good forty-eight hours this time. The steady roaring of his pulse and the rank taste in his mouth are a clear warning that for now, his body has had enough.
He could stay here, but what's the point? Another hour or two of twisting and turning will only heighten the brutal sense of what is. Desolation. Despair. The awareness of a hole in his spirit so profound that he doubts he'll ever comprehend the true extent of it.
Flipping back over, Scott quickly identifies the offending source of brightness. The curtains are drawn; a window opened. A mild Indian summer breeze drifts through the room.
Ororo, he thinks, frowning. She must have slipped in while he was out of it and done this, more than likely at the Professor's behest.
Violating each other's privacy is not a common practice in the mansion. Particularly with him. But Scott cannot find it in himself to blame them this time. In the days following the memorial service, he has cut himself off from everyone and everything he holds dear.
Scott knows they are worried. Alex is too. Otherwise he and Lorna wouldn't be sticking around for so long. Regret tugs at the thought that he might be adding to their burden in the wake of her...departure.
The day of the service, the Professor spoke with him briefly. Told him it would be all right; he would get stronger. That with his innate resolve and her memory to guide him, time would eventually heal the breach.
It is a lie.
Scott already has the strength. He knows he does. To survive. To process. To function.
But not to live.
Charles is his teacher. But Jean was his touchstone. She was his emotional link to the people here, reminding him always of who he was, what he had to give. With her beside him, the mansion had truly become his home; the people inside it his family.
Viewed from that perspective, the loss is incalculable.
Scott drags at the tangled sheets; winds them tightly in his fists. Once more, he hears the dreadful silence in his mind. The loss of her presence is like a migraine for the soul -- so agonizing he nearly cries out with the pain of it.
Sleep is the only thing that helps; the only refuge he has left. In the grip of exhaustion -- worn out, weary -- he cannot think, cannot feel.
He does not remember his dreams.
And Scott throws himself into it the way a junkie surrenders to an addiction. Whole days have gone by, two, then three, when he hasn't left this bed.
But he has finally reached the physiological limits of his current stay. The tactician inside quickly catalogues his options. Chemical inducements are something he won't even think about. Scott is still the team leader. If a call comes in, he cannot afford to be unconscious.
He considers taking off in the RX8, but quickly decides not. Even the challenge of navigating county highways at a hundred and twenty miles an hour without killing himself won't be taxing enough to get the job done.
A vague memory stirs at the thought. Something...the car. A familiarity he cannot place but feels he ought to somehow.
Driving home, driving fast. A rare sense of freedom and happiness.
At once, it is gone. Scott figures that is just as well.
He knows what he needs. Everything else is just a waste of time.
Rising, he ignores the pop and protest of limbs resting too long without use. Scott changes quickly, dragging on a tank, shorts, running shoes.
He checks that his glasses are firmly in place.
At last, he is ready.
(cont'd)