Disclaimer: Marvel owns the character
A/N: This takes place after Scott's death (or my assumption that he died). This
deals with mature themes, sexual and otherwise (hence the R rating) so consider
yourself warned. The poem was used with permission from Asylum
Feedback: is craved and adored
*telepathic thought*
Fragile
by Parodys
"I can hear you screaming,
It vibrates the land
Tears across the water
Ripping up my soul.
I can feel you crying
The doves weep in sympathy
As it washes up on my feet
the salty brine lapping at my toes
I can hear your heart breaking,
More fragile than blown glass
And I see it lying in pieces on the floor
These people are destroying you,
Killing, maiming you
And all I can do is scream."
Asylum's "Fragile"
In the end, no one was quite sure how it had happened, what had set it off. At
least no one said that they knew. Not
that it really mattered in the long run anyway. It had taken six months for her
to get over the nightmares, the screams in the night where she would wake up
shaking, tears pouring down her face. And everyday she had been faced with the
utter emptiness of the day; of a presence that everyone told her was gone. Was
it any wonder that Jean was left feeling so alone?
During that entire time the house had watched in quiet sympathy, keeping their
distance, careful to not say too much. Nobody wanted to hurt her even more; it
was painful enough listening to her say that Scott was still alive.
Embarrassing to have to see the desperation of what was once a strong woman.
Weeks after 'the incident' as they called it, she seemed to get better, smile
more, even laughed occasionally. It seemed so easy to slip into the old
routine, ignore the gaping hole that she felt every time they went out on a
mission. Ignoring the pain, when the leadership was handed over to Remy and
Rogue. Scott would have laughed at that if he had been there. Of course if he
had been there…
So, Jean went around the mansion doing what she was supposed to do, being the
good little girl that was a part of the team, keeping that fragile mask in
place. She was always careful not to let it shatter, sometimes it slipped
though.
One time had been a conversation with Jubilee. The young girl had been on one
of her many visits and the two were baking cookies together. Jean and Jubilee
had been sitting at the kitchen table drinking soda, eating cookie dough and
chocolate chips. Jubilee had been talking about her new video game, when she
paused and said quietly.
"I'm sorry."
Jean smiled vaguely at the now familiar sentiment. "For what
specifically?"
"For
Scott."
She sighed, what else was new. It seemed like everyone was sorry that Scott had
died, sorry that she was still sad, sorry for everything. "So am I."
Jubilee laid a small brown hand on hers and looked at her with deep blue eyes.
"It's okay to be sad, you don't have to hide it all the time you
know."
Her heart twinged painfully. "I don't hide it, I just sometimes keep it
for myself."
"Yeah, but you have a bunch of friends here wanting to share it with you.
You're lucky, when my parents died all I had was me. I know its really lonely
Jean, I just wanted to let you know that we're here for you if you want
us."
The
smell of chocolate chip cookies baking wafted across the room, and Jean laid
her head down on the table, clutching Jubilee's hand, her tears wetting the
warm wood beneath it. "Thank you." she whispered.
It hadn't happened immediately afterwards, but slowly Jean began to grieve with
her friends, finding comfort in the shared tears and stories. And then, without
realizing it, Jean woke up one morning to realize that she had been a widow for
a year and a half. 18 months without her husband, without Scott. Jean stared at
her reflection in the mirror as she traced the contours of her face. 18 months alone.
Later that day she had been in the Danger Room with the team, training. The
sheer exhilaration that came from pushing her body hard made her feel alive.
After a long session, she had been left with energy to spare and Logan had
offered to spar with her.
Laughing and joking, the two of them didn't fight seriously; resorting to
tickling and name calling when the occasion suited. Wolverine had just called
Jean a 'Red haired wench" when she plowed into him, and wrestled him to
the ground. Giggling between breaths, she sat straddling him grinning like an
idiot. Neither of them could have told you later who kissed who.
The
instant their lips had touched, it had been uncontrollable. Later, Jean dimly
recalled Wolverine carrying them upstairs to his room, the rest of the night
was lost in a haze of passion and pleasure. She had clutched on to him as he
had screamed out "Jeannie!" in an explosive release.
The next morning, Jean had gotten up from an empty bed and trailed slowly down
the stairs to the kitchen. It had been about 5am, so she sat by herself sipping
her coffee and eating a muffin. She read the paper, watched the morning news,
and carefully washed her dishes when she was done. Not once did she think about
the events of the night before, of the dull ache in her stomach, or the way her
breasts still tingled in the chill of the morning air.
She had just finished wiping her mug dry when Storm walked into the room. Storm
had paused for a fraction of a second at the sight of Jean and then continued
past her to get her cup of tea. Jean's heart jumped as she realized that Storm
knew.
The mug shattered on the floor as Jean fled from the room, running past the
French doors to her house…their house, the house where she and Scott had
started a life together. Her fingers fumbled at the latch and she stumbled in,
breathing in the essence that still lingered in the dark rooms.
*Scott.*
As usual there wasn't an answer, just an emptiness that still berated her. She
could almost hear it in her head. *Traitor. Slut. Whore. Did you ever love
him?* Sobbing, she ran blindly up the stairs to where their bedroom lay and
flung herself on the bed. Clutching his pillow, she buried her head in the
softness, trying to catch the last remaining whiffs of his aftershave. Nothing.
Screaming into the pillow she tried to remember what he looked like, what he
felt like, his touch. Nothing.
It's said that no one ever dies to a telepath, that they remain alive and well
in their memory as long as the telepath chooses. Jean tried to sink into her
memories, but she was pushed out time and time again; barred by blurred images
and distorted voices.
*Scott.*
In desperation she called out to him, into the void, hoping against hope that
just once, once he would answer her back. Nothing. Choking, shuddering sobs
shook her body as she got up, and walked downstairs. Her red hair was wild
around her shoulders, and her green eyes wide and luminous. "I can't be
alone any more." she whispered softly.
Outside in the mansion, Xavier was calling to the team to find Jean, to get
her.
Her hands closed around a butcher knife, from a set that Scott had given her on
their first wedding anniversary. Stepping softly up the stairs, she lightly lay
back down on the bed. In the end it had been so simple, almost ridiculously so.
All it had taken was a small cut.
Blood began to pool on the bed, dripping on the floor. As she sank into the
darkness she could faintly hear Wolverine's tortured howl as he broke the door
down. When he reached her, a beatific smile was on her face as she whispered
"Scott."
*******************
Epilogue
Jean felt warm and safe as the blackness engulfed her, dimly hearing pounding
on the door downstairs. Opening her eyes, she looked up to find Scott smiling
sadly at her.
"Oh Jean." He said, holding his arms open. She rushed into his arms
touching the blissfully solid form under her hands. "Why?"
Her green eyes shone as she looked into his blue eyes for the first time.
"Because now we're no longer alone."
-fin-
A/N: First of all suicide is never the answer so get help if you feel like that,
secondly I sincerely apologize for this. Blame the cover of Uncanny X-men #394
which sparked this idea off.