Notes: AU setting, featuring Jean and Scott.
Originally written for Minisinoo's Powerswap Challenge. Check out the site, it's got some truly amazing stories archives by authors from all over. (Links don't show on FF.net formatting - the site is themedicinewheel.net, section: Shorts)
Disclaimer: ye olde, ye olde. You know the deal. Characters not mine and all that.
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tyger, tyger, burning bright
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"Tyger Tyger burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?"
William Blake
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It's that special time of the day, when colours burn so bright it hurts his eyes and every whisper is worth a few explosions; when every heartbeat is a pounding hammer and every vapour trace in the air sets the insides of his throat on fire.
It's that special time of the day, when he gets to stagger through the hallways like a drunk – he is drunk, he supposes, drunk and drowning in sights and sounds and fragrances that fade into the background for the other blessed mortals, but not so for him, never so for him.
It's dead night, but the few yellow glows lighting the way through his dark condemned passage are still hurting his eyes. The dull static of late night tv does precious little to calm him, either, and he's not even halfway through before a stifling urge to rip something apart bit by pitiful bit almost takes over. He manages to stifle the urge before it stifles him; the low, throaty growl leaving his lips moments later bears witness that he probably won't be as unwelcoming to the urge were it to return.
Einstein's theory of relativity comes into play, and it's a good few centuries before he reaches his objective: the other end of the corridor, the blessed, holy door – passageway to his sanctuary, his salvation. Exhaling, he reaches for the doorknob, gingerly unlatches the locks, pulls the door open almost reverently.
A woman with fiery red hair watches him from the other end of the corridor, arms folded loosely across her stomach, green catseyes sad and unwavering.
He knows where she is, but he doesn't turn back to look. He won't allow himself to; that she is watching is sorrow enough, for both him and her, but to levy her with a final glance before the beast asserts its claim over his body will be an intolerable cruelty.
His eyes flicker as he eyes the night stretching out in all her majesty beyond the open door; he crouches now, stepping forward slowly, very slowly, savouring the sensation of crossing from one world to another. From the light to the shadow, in more ways than one.
Where there were five fingers, five bleak claws gleam dully, and when he licks his lips his tongue slides over a fresh set of fangs.
He doesn't look back as he presses forward, becoming one with the darkness.
A pair of green catseyes watch the empty doorway still, and their owner blinks a tear away before she returns to the cold comfort of home sweet home.
"He needs this," she remembers the Professor saying, oh so many years ago. "He IS a Feral, after all, and you know from your research how well hyperattenuated senses and primal metabolisms mix…"
Words, words, just words.
She doesn't want words, she doesn't need words; she is flesh and blood and she needs flesh and blood to be whole.
When she finally goes to sleep, alone, she dreams impossible dreams of a night when he won't have to escape into the darkness to save everything he holds dear from the beast within.
She dreams of an impossible Scott, and at least in her dreams, she finds solace.
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"Tyger Tyger burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?"
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