Hope Springs Eternal
A/N: Hope Springs Eternal was, initially, supposed to be a single piece. However, as a plot line emerged from the depths of my imagination, I couldn't resist. I don't apologise for the fact that updates may take time to come: a lot of research will be taking place to make this work. Thanks to all those who reviewed last chapter, and I hope you enjoy the second installment.
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It was 3 o'clock in the morning, and the phone began to ring from its post in the entrance hall downstairs. Logan woke up (being a horribly light sleeper), and swore that whoever was ringing, he'd find them and slit their throat. After all, he was actually having a good night's sleep -- for once.
Hotfooting it down the stairs in order to catch the call before it cut off, he grabbed the receiver and yanked it from its hook (thankfully, it was cordless, or it would have been broken by this point.) "Yeah? Call back later, bub."
He was about to slam it back down and go back to bed when he discovered it wasn't just any old person who was phoning.
"Logan, I do apologise, but this is somewhat important. Can I speak to Scott, please?" Logan sighed, and began to walk up the stairs, taking the phone with him.
"It's 3 AM, Wheels. We're all asleep, including Cyke. I don't know what time it is over there, but this isn't the time to call." However, it could be a time to annoy certain slumbering teachers by waking them for no apparent reason. No real love lost, even if he had found him nearly dead.
"Well, it's a perfectly reasonable hour to call in Scotland. I somehow managed to completely forget about the time difference; I am human, after all. We all err at times. I just need to discuss travel arrangements with him." Logan finally made it to the third floor and tried to make as little noise as he could down the hallway, to Scott and J-- ... no, just Scott's bedroom.
Swinging open the door, there was no one to be seen, but underneath the duvet was a mound-like shape that looked like someone had curled up in a ball with every intent to go into permanent hibernation. Logan sighed, sat on the edge of the mattress, and poked it, aiming for what he thought was a shoulder, but couldn't be entirely sure. Almost spontaneously, an arm shot out from under the covers, scraping towards his bedside table for the pair of glasses that lay next to the lamp (wait... he wasn't wearing them? What happened if he blew the place down by accident?). Logan swiped them from their place on the side and placed them in the hand, which grasped them tightly and withdrew back under the duvet. Seconds later, an obviously groggy Scott Summers emerged, sitting up and obviously not amused. Stowing something inside the bedside table's drawer, he checked the alarm clock, turned and glared (or, as much as one could when their eyes were concealed).
"It's 3 o'clock, Wolverine. Ever heard of sleep?"
"It's Chuck." He handed the phone over, and watched him intently as he shuffled backwards to lean on the headboard, running a hand through his hair absentmindedly before he began to talk. Of course, curiosity killed the Wolverine (what the hell would you be holding in bed?), and he went inside the bedside drawer to find a pair of ruby quartz goggles lying there. Holding them up, he turned to the younger man and raised a sceptic eyebrow.
Scott, in reply, flipped the bird at him, and continued with the conversation.
"Nothing: Logan's just found another piece of my eyewear to laugh at. Hang on a second; I just need to sort something out." He covered the mouthpiece with his hand, removing the phone from his ear, and spoke directly to the man just getting comfortable on the end of his bed. "Logan, do me a favour and go; I'd rather have a private conversation here."
"What if I want to listen in?" Quite frankly, Logan couldn't be bothered to leave; he was settling in nicely, and there was plenty of room. After all, who got the double bed?
"Fine; Logan, do me a favour and fuck off." The words coming out of Summers' mouth, of all people's, was simply too funny to hear, and Logan got up, trying not to laugh, before exiting the room. Removing his hand from the mouthpiece, Scott picked up the phone again and got slightly more comfortable. "Sorry; had to get rid of a gremlin. You were saying?"
Getting out of bed, he grabbed his dressing gown from the hook on the door (noticing that Jean's was still next it somewhat woefully: yes, he was pretending to be absolutely peachy, but things like that still made him feel like he'd been shot through the chest and was still bleeding heavily), and headed down the corridor in the opposite direction from Logan's bedroom, pulling the towelling item on as he went.
"Well, it's travelling. I wanted to hear your opinion, Cyclops; I can either get a commercial air flight, or you could come and collect me, if you wish." Finally reaching the kitchen, Scott positioned the phone between his shoulder and chin and began to make coffee -- no point trying to get back to sleep now, he'd never manage it.
"Your choice, professor. It really does depend on whether you want the in-flight luxury and the comfort of first class, or whether you'd prefer spending less time in the air and no long drive home from the airport, plus me being pilot. If the latter, I could come and collect you now."
"In your pyjamas? No, no. I couldn't possibly- in all truth I should have hung up and left this until later. You really should be in bed, Scott; you have classes to teach this morning." Scott smiled, and withdrew a stool from beneath one of the counters.
"I think a good shot of coffee should sort that out, sir. I couldn't get back to sleep now anyway. How's Saturday for your entirely empty schedule?"
"Well, it being Thursday... morning, that sounds absolutely fine; I shall inform Moira as soon as I can. It seems somewhat odd; not talking to you over Cerebro." The last sentence sounded somewhat wistful, and brought Scott back home with a bump. If Xavier had transferred his conscience (or whatever, he wasn't entirely sure he understood how that worked...), would he still have his mutation?
"Professor... I hate be blunt, but are you still telepathic? Nothing's happened since... well, you know... the Phoenix fiasco?"
From the other end of the line, there was a laugh, and he relaxed somewhat.
"I was fearing the same thing, but luckily not. As I'm sure you know, relations who both possess the X-Factor often have similar mutations; and I and my brother both possess the necessary talents to use telepathy. I'm not quite sure whether it will be at the same level of my previous skills, but we'll have to see. Meanwhile, I was informed by Storm that you have something new to add onto your list of hidden talents; she wasn't quite sure what."
Scott thought about it quickly, before realising what he was referring to. "Oh, yes... that. It's hardly anything, I just happened to find myself in some kind of 'ye olde' Alkali Lake, that I thought was Tudor England. I'm not sure how it occurred, truth be told, but I'm not planning to investigate further." The kettle boiled at that point, so he poured coffee and thankfully took a gulp, moving from the stool to cross-legged on the kitchen counter. "So, if Saturday's fine, what time do you want me at Muir Island; GMT?"
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The conversation continued accidentally for nearly another two hours, until Scott had consumed three cups of coffee and Xavier had to go. Two more days, and then everyone would be home. Or, nearly everyone, anyway.
Stop dwelling on it, Summers, that'll get you nowhere. Quite at the spur of the moment, in pyjamas and bare feet (he never had got round to getting hold of a pair of slippers), he slammed his now empty coffee cup on the worktop, and headed outside, across the grounds, to Jean's grave.
In the early morning twilight, the spot looked glorious: bathed in light and shadow. It was almost perfect, considering what could be termed as the dark side of her had effectively caused her to die (or be killed: and he didn't know quite what to think about Logan after that, except what she'd told him if she 'flipped out' again), but that was just the cynic in him coming to the fore.
They'd had time to remove the un-needed graves, too. He and Logan had done it: somehow, they were getting along slightly better, even if they still had the odd argument about the stupidest things. They'd put them in the large shed near the boathouse: because it didn't feel quite right to destroy them. They'd both agreed that, and although they had had to get Peter to carry the larger of the two (they'd tried and failed), he'd carried the tombstone with his name on it without complaint.
He had an odd memory of telling the Professor that he'd rather had had something sarcastic on his tombstone, along the lines of what Blackadder had wanted to carve on his ('Here lies Edmund Blackadder, and he's bloody annoyed...'), but ignored it, instead sitting on one of the pavestones leading down to the secluded spot, and looking at the grave almost fondly.
On the other side of a set of bushes, directly behind the area, there was part of the grounds that she'd loved, as a teenager. She'd liked the wildflowers in the grass, their pastel colours, and the fact that they still grew every year, seemingly no matter what. He'd just told her they'd die eventually.
Thinking about it, suddenly, everything seemed to distort, completely blurring out before coming back into focus.. In front of him, there was no grave: he wasn't even sitting on a paving stone. It was, instead, a sunny morning in what seemed to be late summer, and he could hear someone from the other side of the bush.
And there was him, sitting there in his pyjamas. God, it was almost funny. Think of all the Hitchhikers puns he could apply to this moment.
Getting to his feet warily, he looked around, before moving forward and into the shrub that was ahead of him. It seemed to be exactly the same as before: sans some of the newer features. And it was Jean's voice, calling; calling him.
"Oh, come on, Scott! Don't be such a pessimist." This enthusiastic yet rebuking comment was directed at a seemingly pissed off teenager clad in black, sitting on one of the benches underneath the trees. The only thing he had which wasn't lacking in colour was white (which didn't technically count, but never mind that) and consisted of a thick set of bandages covering his eyes.
"I'm not a pessimist; just a cynic and an opportunist, all in one. I don't see why you felt like dragging me out here anyway: it's not like I can see anything, is it?"
"God, you can never see the bright side of things, can you? Come on; it's a glorious day, and you're sitting there being a prickly cactus."
"I don't react well to sunlight, do I? Please say you'll drag me back inside now." This was said almost pleadingly: and Scott knew why. He remembered hating going outside the boundaries that inside the mansion presented, simply because he could remember them; and the outside environment was an ever changing variable. The lack of control this presented him, being a control freak and knowing it, was frankly scaring.
However, as he spent another five minutes looking in on the continuing argument, which was snowballing towards him getting hit rapidly, it felt as if someone had grabbed the back of his neck and yanking him back, landing him with a (literal) bump back where he'd started, with someone apparently giving him CPR. Wait. He'd stopped breathing?
The brush of a sideburn against his cheek suddenly alerted him to who was actually doing said resuscitation, and he sat up with a gasp, knocking Logan away from him.
"What the hell was that for?" he asked, taking a deep breath and trying to steady himself. Logan's breath managed to taste of mint and cigars at the same time, and although that wasn't a good mix at the best of times, the taste of nicotine gave him a bit of a kick: always had done.
"You weren't breathing, for fuck's sake; it's five in the morning and someone had to resuscitate you. God, you conking out is all we need right now. This place was fucking havoc without you last time: Marie and her lot don't need that, ya hear?" The fact that Logan had him by the front of the shirt with the classic 'don't mess with me' look made him nod dumbly -- well, who wouldn't? Despite many of the older girls terming him as 'someone who just needs to be loved,' Logan could be a very scary person. It was the sideburns that did it.
What he wasn't expecting was to be hauled up, and be attemptedly dragged back up the grounds. Not particularly wanting to go anywhere (he preferred the solice of his surroundings now), he dug his heels into the ground. Logan turned, looked unimpressed, then did the unexpected: forcibly lifted him over his shoulder and carried him up to the mansion, as he hung helplessly.
"Logan, get off me; I can walk." He struggled, but to no avail: Wolverine's grip wasn't yielding, apparently.
"Yeah, but you'll just end up with your bike, or the jet. You need sleep, kid: you've been up for four hours already, and that can't be good." Scott tried struggling again, somewhat fruitlessly, as Logan kicked the door closed behind him and crossed the hallway. Scott, who was woefully upside down, was secretly glad that he didn't get motion sickness as the pair went up the stairs. He'd resigned himself to the fact that he was going to be staying over Logan's shoulder until they were on the third floor, and so had stopped trying to wriggle out of his grip, despite every reflex in his body screaming at him to get out of this situation now.
"I'm not a kid any more, thank you very much." Yes, Logan could address any of the students as 'kid', but no way was he getting into the habit of using it as a term for him too.
"Who's the youngest adult here?" Logan asked, almost amused, as they reached the appropriate storey.
"Technically, Warren, but he said he was going to get home at one point or another, due to family commitments. Don't even go there, Logan: I was having a good morning."
"Yeah, well, if passing out next to a grave is a good morning, I hate to think what a bad one is, bub." Reaching to open the door, Logan dropped his charge inside his bedroom before pulling what he suspected was the door key from a hook on the frame, and closing the door behind him sharpish. From inside the room, Scott heard the lock click and walked calmly back to where he'd just come from.
"You do have to be joking. Unlock the door."
"Night night, Scottie. See you in the morning." At which point Logan travelled back down the corridor, and Scott was left wondering how on earth he'd managed to fall for that. Instead of sleeping, he headed straight over to his desk and started marking; after all, he had better things to do than follow Logan's instructions (especially with caffeine pulsing around his veins.)
In fact, when Logan came back to unlock the door later, he found it hanging open, with a hair grip protruding from inside the keyhole.
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Despite two days of restless sleep (or lack thereof), Scott was up and raring to go on Saturday morning, even without the aid of coffee. After all, this was an important trip, and he enjoyed flying at any time, day or night.
"Ro, I'm going to head off, I think," he said, passing her in the corridor on the way downstairs. "See you tomorrow."
"Oh, no. You think I'm not coming with you?" She turned to go with him, accompanying him about two metres down the corridor, until he stopped and turned on his heel.
"Wait... we need to put someone in charge of the place, in that case: Jubes'll turn the place upside down if we're not careful."
The pair called back down the hall in unison to the only adult left -- or, the only one they thought really constituted as an adult, having a permanent spot on the X-Team and being able to buy alcohol. "Logan!"
His door flung open and said side burned mutant leaned around the doorframe, shirtless. "What?" It took a lot of will power to stop Scott rolling his eyes.
"Look after the kids. We're going out," he said. Logan's jaw dropped, and he emerged into the hallway, thankfully with a pair of trousers on.
"Oh, no. Not when they're all awake and able to cause havoc."
"You can handle it; after all, you're The Great Wolverine, able to handle any tantalizing problem that life throws at you, right? See you later," he replied. Logan stood, flabbergasted, as the pair hotfooted it down the corridor and into the lift.
Leaning against the back of the elevator, Scott picked a piece of stray hair off the front of his shirt and discarded it in disdain. Admittedly, he hadn't reverted right back to 'beatnik mode', as Jean used to put it, but was instead compromising between smart and casual: shirt and jeans, plus hiking boots. He found it oddly comfortable, somehow, to land right in the middle. Like being a college student again.
Minutes later, as they strapped themselves into the pilot and co-pilot's seat, respectively, of the Blackbird, she turned to him with a question.
"Ready to go?" It was obviously a concerned tone; seeing as the last time Scott had been flying, it was Alkali Lake... and, well, they knew what had happened.
"Come on; this is the professor we're talking about. I'm fine: don't join the long string of people who keep looking at me as if I'm about to drop dead any second. Let's get this show on the road." As the basketball court retracted, and the X-Jet took off vertically into the morning sky, various students watched them go, the younger of the group with their noses pressed to the windows as they followed the black shape as far as they could see it. Subconsciously, there was a sigh of relief.
Everything was going to be fine: Xavier was coming home.
