There had been years when this was everything she wanted.
Emma's heels ticked softly on the floor, shadow and
moonlight sliding across her skin in turn as she walked the
halls of Xavier's mansion. Some years it had been revenge
she'd craved; revenge on DaCosta's son, revenge for being
thwarted - year after year by the sanctimonious X-men -
fury at Xavier's teachings that left his student's so
vulnerable to treachery from humans. In the later years,
when everyone was older, if not wiser, Emma craved the
mansion for a different reason entirely.
Now she had all she craved. The mansion, a position of
leadership, the responsibility of shaping the next
generation of mutant children - and Scott.
Her late night
wanderings had taken her to the Headmaster's office and she
poured herself a glass of whiskey.
"And still, I rate below a corpse," she tipped her glass to
the monolithic, stylized bird statue looming beyond the
window, stark in the moonlight and stone cold dead. Like
Jean.
Not that she believed that would last forever. Returning
from the dead was Jean's talent, after all.
Someday, somehow, Emma expected Jean would show up again.
She was certainly aware that Scott believed that too. Emma
swallowed down the whiskey, closing her eyes at the
satisfying burn then poured another glass.
She wasn't going to start simpering about the price of her
dreams now and took another swallow instead. Pushing aside
the curtain Emma stared out at the dark shadows and moonlit
stone. Scott had chosen it, the odd apricot alabaster and
the abstract design both. She wondered if Jean would have
liked it and guessed not. Jean, for all her prudish,
ill-tempered arrogance hadn't been much for big honking
statues in her honor. What the Phoenix believed … Emma
really didn't give a damn.
Emma found herself outside a little while later, circling
the statue while the night air slipped past the translucent
barrier of her nightgown. The silk clung to her hips and
to cold nipples, slipped apart to bare her thighs and that
was just the way she wanted it. Emma bought her lingerie
with an eye to who was going to be looking at it, not for
warmth.
The glass was cold on her mouth and, when she put her hand
to the stone statue, it was colder still. She saluted it
then, on impulse, poured a splash of whiskey at the base.
Remy LeBeau, superstitious Cajun that he was, would be
proud of her. Perhaps a tip of whiskey now and then would
keep Jean away for another day, another month, another
moment.
"Give me a chance, damn you," she whispered to the
soaring beak. It cut into the diamond bright moon, a
sharp, red edged shadow. Just like the shadow Jean still
cast over Emma's life. She had everything she longed for
and nothing. Nothing.
Emma hopped up on the base of the statue and sat, cold
stone biting through the pale silk of her inadequate
clothes. The expansive, and expensively repaired lawn, was
empty - or at least Logan was staying out of her sight.
The mansion was silent behind her, all the kiddies dreaming
of better days and Scott dreaming of Jean. She didn't even
have to dip into his mind to know that. It had been true
since before Jean had died and … Emma wasn't going
to bitch about lying in the bed she'd made for herself.
She was a substitute and she'd known it at the first kiss.
At least Scott was old enough now not to try and lie to her
about it and Emma supposed she had to be satisfied with
that. Or do without and she wasn't used to not getting
what she wanted. Except that she'd never bargained for
being a crutch and she leaned back against the cold stone,
cursing Jean's name and her yenta-arrogance for 'giving'
Scott into Emma's care like he was a crippled boy.
Which, Emma had to admit as she studied the dregs of her
drink, he was. It was like he'd lost a limb - or something
more significant. The ache of Jean's absence was always,
always there in his mind. For a telepath it was
maddening and nothing she did soothed that ache. Because
she wasn't Jean.
And there, of course, lay temptation. She was a telepath
of no little power and she knew what Scott missed and
longed for as no one else did. It would be easy, almost,
to give him what he so desperately wanted. What he clearly
needed.
It would be easy to give him Jean.
Frighteningly easy, with everyone in the mansion holding
their breath and waiting for Jean's fiery return. It would
not be so hard to draw Jean's image and Jean's voice and
Jean's walk over her own. It would not be difficult to
find and fill all the spaces where Jean once had been.
They were not so different after all.
Both telepaths. Emma let her mind rove over the dreams
within the house behind her. Logan was asleep, amazingly
enough and for once, free of nightmares. Emma tip-toed
past his mind, wary of stirring him from his rare moment of
peace.
Both powerful. In their battles, sometimes Jean had been
the victor and sometimes Emma. As they'd aged, they'd
reached an impasse and it was only situational advantages
that kept them from stalemate. Emma liked to believe that
they had even come to a sort of understanding in the years
as opponents and uneasy allies.