Disclaimer: I don't own X-Men. If I did, that would be pretty cool, though. Neither do I own a certain line in the story. If you can point it out, and what movie it's from, you win a cookie!

Dr. Hank McCoy, mutation aside, was not a man to be trifled with. He was at the forefront of most ground-breaking scientific studies, knew enough about physics and chemistry to make a lesser man's head explode, and was a medical doctor, great enough to do what others could not. All things considered, there was not a better man to mend and heal Scott Summers. That didn't mean either man, Scott or Hank, was ready to take on the challenge.

There were physical obstacles to overcome; they had to change Scott's very brain chemistry, for it had been too long dependent on an outward source for euphoria. It was likely they would have to do surgery to fix the cartilage between his nostrils for it was more than likely damaged from 'snorting' the cocaine. His lungs were probably damaged, and he might have long-term repercussions, ranging from a hoarse voice to asthma. Though there were addicts all around the world going through the same thing, this one case seemed much worse to Hank McCoy, due only to the fact that he personally knew and respected Scott Summers.

Dr. McCoy stepped off of the plane, heading directly to baggage claim. He waited impatiently, eyeing each bag as it passed him by. He found his luggage and left, pushing open the glass doors. He sighed as a burst of urban wind hit him full in the face, and looked around for a familiar person. He checked his cell phone for any missed messages, and found none. All appeared to be on schedule.

"Hank!" Someone shouted through the din of people loading into various methods of transportation.

Dr. McCoy turned around, watching the crowd for the woman who had called him. It was Ororo, and he smiled broadly. "Ororo! How good to see you."

Ororo smiled in return. "It's good to see you too. Come on, I have a car." She led him over to the black SUV, and they were off to the mansion, chatting cheerfully, each trying to pretend that a close friend of theirs wasn't in complete agony and that it wasn't dire need that drove Hank to be at the mansion.

The mansion during wintertime, for it was almost Christmas, was always beautiful. The trees were bare of leaves and covered in snow. There was a delicious bite to the cold morning air that was refreshing to the soul. The sky was a light gray, promising that even though the earth seemed dead, it would always recover. A chilling breeze danced through the world, but it wasn't strong enough to ruffle the snow that blanketed the rooftop.

It was into this icy world that Scott Summers had decided to venture. The room he had been staying it was beginning to feel like a prison, and he needed air. It was nerve-wracking to have people constantly watching him, though he appreciated the gesture when he wasn't overcome with panic of what Hank would say, for he and the doctor had been quite close, once upon a time, or fighting with a sense of craving. Trudging through the snow helped with both of those. It was easier to focus on a physical task, and outward circumstances, like marching through large patches of snow and the cold that seeped into his body from his wet jeans, than having to pay attention to his inward struggle.

He kept on trudging, for trudging is to walk the depressing walk of a man who has nothing left in life, until the mansion was hidden by a thin veil of trees. If he bent his knees slightly so his line of sight was below that limb, he could still see the mansion through the pine branches, but other than that, it was significant shelter from prying eyes. He stopped himself before he sat on the cold, although bare, ground. He sounded like a depressed teenager. That was a depressing thought in and of itself. He shrugged the notion off and sat down, rubbing his cold hands together, creating friction.

He had always loved being outdoors. It gave him a sense of freedom that he craved. He was always looking for a way to be free, to push the limits and to see how long he could last (hence, the need for more than one fast car and motorcycle). He pushed the boundaries of his mind, forcing everything he could into his head. He spent as much time as he could outside, even though he could only see in shades of red. He adjusted his sunglasses at this thought. He was grateful for the ability to even see, but sometimes, he wondered what it would be like to see in full color. Jean had projected images into his mind so he could see how many different colors were actually present in winter, and how vibrant the mansion looked in early autumn. She'd given him images of herself, and those were the ones he treasured the most. He was not a man prone to flights of fancy or quick impulses, but he knew he would willingly give up everything he was to see Jean without the impairment of his glasses and the danger of his blasts.

As Scott sat there on the ground, leaning his back against a tree and letting the cold air soothe away some of his withdrawal pain, He was still nauseous most of the time, and often flew off the handle at Logan or Ororo, though he always apologized afterwards (to Ororo, that is). He and Logan were beginning to understand each other; Logan didn't take any offense, and Scott needed to "shut his damn mouth and stop apologizing". He had a lot more energy and was starting to regain a somewhat normal sleeping schedule, and he didn't shake and beg for drugs as much. With all of this good progress, showing his physical withdrawal symptoms were slowly decreasing (he didn't like to think about his "morning sickness", as Logan so aptly put it, or the fact he sometimes didn't get up from bed or from a chair for hours because he was so depressed), he still had panic attacks any time he thought about never having cocaine again.

He wanted to stop being so dependant on the drug, because he logically knew that it would only destroy him. The thought of never reaching that sort of high again, however, was what made him freak out. It was absolute heaven, when the drug coursed through his veins, and to never feel that good again made life seem impossibly hard. It made life seem worthless. What was the point of life, if one never felt so wonderful? How did people survive without ever taking any drugs and getting that high?

The thought of actually living life again made his mind boggle. He hadn't been living life for a long time, and the possibility of regaining that made him slightly more optimistic, but at the same time, completely overwhelmed to the point he wanted to crawl underneath his fuzzy blankets and just sleep the day away. The journey to that point was utterly depressing, but the destination was tempting. The light at the end of the tunnel… that's what someone said to him when he had first been grieving Jean's death. Something about there being a light at the end of a tunnel, and he had to reach for it, no matter what. Now, and then, the light was a pinprick, like a faint star as the night begins. The tunnel was overwhelming, dominating and tyrannical.

"How am I going to do this?" Scott wondered aloud, groaning.

Scott. Hank will be here in five minutes.

Scott froze, his eyes widening. Hank was approaching the mansion. Hank knew of the situation. A lump formed in his throat, making it hard to breathe and swallow. Tears sprang into his eyes and he squeezed his eyes shut. This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening. He would never touch cocaine or any other drug again. He would be empty and hollow, absolutely desolate. He forced himself to swallow and he stood up. Mechanically, he walked back to the mansion and went to his room, changing into another pair of jeans. He traversed Xavier's School, and walked down the main staircase that led to the foyer.

"Ready, Scott?" The professor asked from where he sat in his wheelchair, ready to welcome their guest into his home.

"I don't think I was ever ready." He ground out, forcing himself to stay planted in his place.

"I'm proud of you." Charles told him in a soft whisper, as if he was telling a great secret that pleased him greatly.

Scott offered him a half-smile, the best he could give at the moment. It did mean a lot to him, and he wasn't worried about seeming ungrateful (Xavier always knew; it was annoying sometimes). He just couldn't express it, and there was no time to try. He heard the smooth sound of tires against concrete.

"Ororo took the SUV?" He turned his head to look at the professor, who was amused that Scott still could tell which car was coming up the drive by the sound of the tires alone.

"Scott, Hank just got back from a scientific exhibit. I wouldn't be surprised if they needed to secure some of his bags onto the top of the car." Charles reminded him with an amused smile.

Scott watched the doorknob as it slowly turned, and the door opened to reveal Ororo Munroe, followed closely by Hank McCoy. He nodded slightly to Ororo, and then raised his eyes to meet Hank's. No words were exchanged for a moment as doctor and patient surveyed and examined each other. The silence was overbearing.

"Welcome, Hank. It is good to see you once again." Charles shook Hank's hand firmly and affectionately. "Ororo, I'm glad to see you encountered no problems on the way." The way he ended the sentence seemed like he was asking a question, and Ororo answered it with a smile.

"The drive over was wonderful. Hank and I were catching up." She gave Scott an encouraging smile. "I'll take your things to the medlab." She gave Scott an encouraging smile and reached for Hank's bags.

Hank placed a hand on her shoulder fondly. "Thank you, Ororo." The African woman left the foyer, disappearing into the hallway, heading towards the nearest elevator that led to the lower levels.

Scott felt trapped. His gaze shifted from Charles to Hank and back nervously, and his heart was racing. He was sure he felt some sweat form on his brow, and his hands were shaking again. He shoved them into his pockets and formed angry fists, trying to keep himself together. This was Hank. There was no reason to fear him. If he wasn't intimidated by the blue fur or the superhuman strength, then he shouldn't be frightened. Whoops. Too late. He was terrified.

He ground his teeth together in an effort to keep them from chattering, and it seemed that a brief moment of silence was taking far too long. In reality, he would later recall it was probably only a split second of awkwardness before Hank began talking, as if nothing in the world was wrong.

"Scott, it has been far too long since we have last seen each other. Seven years, isn't it? Those glasses definitely look worse for wear. Looking for an updated pair?" Hank began conversationally. He smiled, and it was fascinating to Scott that he could smile and act so naturally without seeming patronizing. That was quite the mighty feat.

"Uh, yeah, that'd be nice." Scott managed to splutter out, knocked off balance by this calm beginning.

"Well, let's go to the medlab, then. No sense in wasting time, right?" Hank led the small procession to the elevator and then down to the lower levels.

Though his open and warm manner had settled Scott's racing heart, the nausea that was building in his stomach born of panic simply wouldn't go away. He felt reduced to a small child, pretending to be mature enough to sit at the grown-up table, but still scared of the adults that sat there and the confusing game known as courtesy and politics. He was entirely out of his league here. How could Hank be so calm? Why was he distracting him with talk of getting him a new pair of glasses? Were they planning to trap him in the medlab and force him into sobriety? Were they actually getting him new glasses? The first answer seemed more likely. Since "brevity is the soul of wit" I will be brief: Scott Summers was utterly confused.

Hank began to bustle about the medlab, opening up the bag Ororo had left there for him. He placed it on the stainless steel countertop, revealing the contents. There were several kinds of frames along with several pairs of lenses for each. It seemed that Hank had found ten fashionable frames, and estimated what his prescription would be by now. Scott had always had a slow-to-change eye prescription, but had been very lucky that his visor lens changed curvatures to fit his eyes. Within ten minutes, Hank had found the perfect match of lenses for Scott, and the latter selected an aviator-style frame.

"Hank." Scott called to get the other man's attention, feeling exhaustion creep underneath his skin, as though his instincts were telling him there was an intruder nearby. There was still the underlying urge to vomit, and he was sure he would be doing so the moment he left the medlab, and his hands just couldn't stop shaking, but the worst of his withdrawals was that he was just tired, and not just physically either. His heart was exhausted of such high anxiety and then the most invasive depression one could possibly imagine, of going to the highest highs when he realized that he would be clean, and then to the lowest low as he realized the same.

"Yes?" The blue man looked up from sliding the lenses into place. Scott took that moment to marvel at the man's genius; he put all other doctors of any type to shame with his brilliance.

"Why you're…here…I, uh…"

Charles suddenly spoke up. He had been silent the entire time they had been in the medlab. "We don't have to begin the official detoxification immediately. Hank came as soon as he could so you might become accustomed to his presence, and then you get to choose when we begin."

Hank nodded, handing the glasses to Scott. "Try these on."

Scott sighed, accepting the professor's explanation for the moment. He screwed his eyes shut and pulled his old pair of sunglasses off. He slid the new pair on, sliding his fingers over the frame to make sure it was covering all of his eyes. He then opened his eyes and glanced into a nearby mirror. "Looks good." He commented.

"Good." Hank smiled at him, but Scott did not smile back. He was far too concerned with keeping himself from shaking. He hated the shaking the most, besides the depression. The only time he could remember shaking was when he'd been dreadfully cold, like the time Bobby and John had locked him out of the mansion on Christmas Eve. Jean had let him in when he hadn't come to bed, but he remembered the amount of work the two had been assigned to do with sadistic glee.

"Scott, are you feeling well?" Charles asked, wheeling himself over to Scott and placing a hand on his arm.

"I think I need to sit down." He muttered, walking over to one of the patient tables and hopping up onto it. He leaned forward, his hands on his knees. He was suddenly so tired, once again; possibly overwhelmed by the excessive exercise he'd done after he'd thrown up several times. He hated himself for his own weakness. Yes, he expected these symptoms, but he also expected himself to be strong enough to overcome them. He was Scott Summers, not someone who got weighed down by withdrawal symptoms. He ground his teeth, forcing himself to not explode on Hank or the professor.

"Would you like to return to your room? Perhaps we can pick this up tomorrow." Hank suggested, and Scott could have hugged him.

"Yes, thank you." He stood up, moving over to the door. "Thank you, Hank, for coming."

"My pleasure, Scott." Hank nodded to his new patient, and then turned away, getting acquainted with the space he would be using for the next several months. Some drug rehabilitation programs had hospitalization periods of only twenty-eight days to a solid thirty, but Charles had asked him to stay for as long as possible, in case of any relapses, or Scott needed someone else to just be with or talk to. The two of them were old friends, and that might bring a sense of comfort and familiarity that Charles or Ororo couldn't provide. Xavier seemed to think of everything.

Scott said farewell to the professor on the main floor, as it was nearing lunchtime and Xavier's physics students often came looking for him at that time for extra help.

Scott headed up the stairs once more, his feet nearly dragging on the floor. His limbs felt heavy and he was torn between the desire to sleep and the need to find some form of drug to abuse. He felt completely unstable and unbalanced without something unnatural surging through his blood. There seemed to be a hole gnawing at his stomach, and he felt so… empty. He was depressed; that was obvious. He'd experienced the highest high he'd ever imagined possible from drugs, and everything else seemed to pale in comparison. Nothing could engage him in such a way cocaine had. Nothing could give him a reason to live.

It wasn't that he was about to off himself. He didn't have the guts, and for once, he would be okay with being gutless. He wanted to have steel-like determination to turn the mess he'd created around. Cocaine had been killing him, though nothing had ever made him feel more alive. He didn't remember how to live.

Well, he'd just have to learn, wouldn't he? He owed Charles, Ororo, Hank and all his students too much to let them down because he couldn't or wouldn't learn how to cope. He had to make it through. He would be clean because he wanted to contribute something to the mansion. Even at the lowest point in his life, when he only needed a home, Charles had given him a chance at new life. He wasn't going to mess this up.

Scott stumbled into his room, closing the door behind him. The not-messing-up would have to come tomorrow. He was exhausted and needed sleep. Fighting drugs and struggling to become clean were troubles for the next day. Right now, his only dilemma was whether to get undressed into more comfortable clothes or to go straight to sleep. In the end, he collapsed onto the bed and closed his eyes, asleep within minutes.