Disclaimer: I do not own X-Men.
Scott Summers hadn't slept the entire night. He had managed the walk to the medlab, and despite his arms and legs feeling like lead and painful to use, he felt good about himself and where he was in his life, even though his past had been less than a shining example of goodness. His positive emotions lasted for half the walk to the medical table that also doubled as a patient bed. His left leg collapsed underneath him, and he vomited all over the floor. He had lain there, in a puddle of his own vomit, for five minutes until Hank had returned from getting himself coffee and toast, to help the scientist burn through the night, doing research and caring for Scott. The vomit had been cleaned up and Scott had been helped to the bed, but he didn't sleep.
His thoughts wandered from place to place as the hours wore on. Each minute seemed a chore to live through, and he allowed himself to become obsessed with the idea of finding cocaine… crack, heroin, anything. It really didn't matter anymore. He needed something to fill the empty void in himself before he went insane. Perhaps it was already too late for that; all he could think of was cocaine. He hated this place, and all of the hateful people it housed. He hated being forced to be away from the only thing that had ever offered him shelter from the storm of his life. It didn't matter to him that he was running to an inanimate object for the answer to his troubles and pains and that something that he artificially injected into himself could never truly heal him. It offered him momentary comfort, and that was all he had. It would be enough until his life finally dribbled away and he was faced with whatever came after.
Death no longer frightened Scott. If it came to him in the next minute, he would welcome it with open arms.
There weren't a lot of things that caused him pain anymore. Sarcastic or crude comments no longer affected him. If he were to be rejected for sex by some random tramp in a bar, he would live, and not just because he could easily find someone else willing to sleep with him. All seemed insignificant when compared to the few tatters of his heart that remained in his chest. When Jean had died, she had taken most of his heart with her, though she had left him a small amount of life left. He didn't know why. If he died, he would join her in whatever peace existed when life faded into nothingness.
Jean was dead. She was gone, forever. He would never hold her again, or see her beautiful face or smile. He would never be the rock she stood on when her strength was gone, or the support she leaned against when the entire world seemed to be against her. His favorite times in their relationship had been when she realized she couldn't make it through the world on her own and leaned on him, when she gave up control and allowed him to step in. He never thought less of her when she admitted she needed him to hold her in the dark nights, when she was frightened and despairing. His heart was nearly fit to burst as he thought on the dark days when she had been content to lie in his arms, completely vulnerable as he soothed her to sleep with gentle kisses along her cheeks and neck. When she had allowed him to protect her, then she had shown him who she really was. She was so beautiful; it often left him awestruck.
Every wonderful memory he had of them began to rush through his head, and he curled up on his side, crying out as his legs refused to move. He buried his face into his pillow, and allowed himself a silent cry. Tears found their way out from under his tightly squeezed eyelids and soaked the pillow quickly. The tears came at a rapid pace, and he could not muffle the sob that tore from his throat. One sob became two heartbroken sounds of weeping, and he was lost in his grief.
This one good cry wouldn't solve his problems. He wasn't even crying entirely for the loss of Jean. He was sobbing for the loss of cocaine, for the peace that he got from the drug. He was weeping because he was too pathetically weak to even try to steal some drugs he was sure were around. He needed drugs, but even more so, he needed Jean. He needed to be loved. It was simple. That was all he wanted.
All of his life… that was what he had dreamt about. His parents had died when he was so young. It took a great stretch of memory to envision their faces. He had no idea where his brother, Alex, was, and missed him terribly at times. He had lived on the street for several years, stealing what he could and getting into trouble until Charles Xavier had stepped in. He clung desperately to the man because Charles had been the first to be there, and to never leave. He still hadn't left, even when Scott had.
Then there had been Jean. He had been enamored of her, even as a teenager. She was a dream to him. She was beyond hot and an undeniably amazing person. At first, it had been mostly hormones, but their friendship had developed, and he had found himself loving her. It had been so easy to love her. They fought, a lot, but it was so easy to forget about her faults and love her. She had made it easy; always apologizing when they both calmed down after fights and other such things.
Jean Grey had been the first woman to ever understand him. She had always been safe, and gave him every opportunity to tell her everything, to truly be vulnerable. He had never been disappointed when he truly needed her. She had been patient and gentle, kind and loving, everything any man could need in a woman. He had found the love of his life.
The door opened audibly, and Scott turned quickly onto his back, reaching his hands up to wipe his face. He knew his nose would be red and his eyes probably puffy and red as well, but he hoped it could be passed off as a sleepless night and… somehow he had smacked his nose. It could happen.
He forced himself to sit up, his anxiety shooting through the roof when he realized it was Ororo. He sniffed quickly, rubbing the back of his hand over his eyes. His heart began to race as she smiled at him, though her eyes were worried at the last vestiges of tears on his cheeks. It didn't comfort him that she didn't say anything at first. If there was one thing he'd learned about women, aside from the fact a man never glances at his woman when she asks him if an article makes her look fat (he merely answers no; it is a reflex), it was that they brought things up later, and often at the most inopportune times.
"Merry Christmas, Scott!" Ororo greeted him cheerfully, carrying two packages in her arms. She deposited them into his lap, beaming at him. "Well, open them up!" She urged him, almost jumping around like a little child.
"Merry Christmas to you too, Ororo. What are these?" He asked, his voice hoarse from crying, and he coughed, trying to cover it. He looked down at the two packages. One was small, about the size of a notebook, the kind students used to keep their work together. Another was much larger, filling his lap with its square, thick size.
"They're called presents, Scott. I'm sure you're familiar with them." She teased him, ruffling his mussed up bed hair. She ran her hand down the back of his neck in a gentle gesture, attempting to comfort his growing anxiety. Her hand rested on his shoulder as she smiled at him. "Come on, I'm sure you'll enjoy them." Her mood subdued, Scott looked up at her and sighed.
"You didn't have to." He mentioned as he found the place she had taped the sides of the paper together.
"I know. But it's your first Christmas back, and I wanted it to be special." Ororo explained. "I didn't think you'd be up, since it's only seven."
"Then why are you up?" He asked, finally pulling the wrapping paper from the smaller package. His heart stopped. He would recognize that dark blue, hardback journal anywhere. It had a golden J scripted on the front, and a blue tassel marking a page very close to the end. He ran his fingers over the front, gently biting his lower lip. "Is this…?"
"Yeah." Ororo nodded, letting out a sigh. "The diary of the last couple of years of her life is saved on her laptop, which is in one of the boxes. But I thought you'd…"
"Yeah." Scott nodded, his stomach doing odd gymnastics. "Yeah." He repeated softly, gently putting the journal aside. He didn't know if his heart could bear reading her personal thoughts at the moment. He looked down at the larger package.
He quickly ripped the paper away, carefully folding it and putting it aside so he wouldn't litter all over the floor of the medlab. He ran his hand over the soft, red leather front of what appeared to be a photo album. He opened it and turned to the first page. In beautiful script it simply read:
Scott and Jean Summers
Tears sprang to his eyes as he looked up at Ororo, confused. His throat and mouth were suddenly dry, and he found it impossible to swallow. His heart was hammering in his chest, and he suddenly couldn't breathe. He never would have thought simply seeing four words could have such a profound effect on him. A million thoughts were zooming through his mind as he stared at that first page.
"What is this?" He whispered, turning tear-filled eyes back to Ororo.
"It's part of the wedding present I was putting together for you two." She admitted, reaching over and touching the creamy pages fondly. "It's a collection of pictures and memories of the entire time you were a couple." Ororo touched his shoulder. "Are you okay?"
"Uh… yeah. Yeah, I think so." Scott looked at the first page again in wonder. He and Jean had talked about her taking his name, and she had considered Grey-Summers. Personally, it didn't matter to him; all that mattered was his ring was on her finger and they would have their future together. Then, several nights before she had died, she had told him that she wanted to take the Summers name.
… Yeah, sex had been great that night.
"Okay. How are you feeling?" She asked, glancing over to the office attached to the medlab where Hank sat at the computer, typing away, completely oblivious to what was going on due to the door being closed. She turned back to Scott, looking him over.
If she was honest with herself, he looked like a mess. His eyes were starting to clear up from crying, but he was pale. He looked exhausted, and she swore he appeared slightly green. She leaned in and gave him a hug, pressing her cheek to the top of his head. He responded, relaxing slightly in her hold as his breathing became deeper.
"I feel like crap." He sighed. "And I think I need to be alone."
Ororo nodded and kissed his forehead, taking the paper and leaving with a small smile. Scott looked down at the two presents. He wasn't sure how to react because an emotion would scurry through his mind, closely followed by another completely different feeling. He was confused, and then furious at Ororo for giving him something that would remind him of Jean. He felt as though his heart was ripping inside of his chest, and then an insurmountable sensation of joy spread through him, from his tangled and messed up hair to his feet.
He was somewhere between fear that he would never find peace and excruciating physical pain which always was coupled with intense emotional agony when Hank left the office with surprising quietness for a mutant of his size. He hadn't turned to the next page of the album, let alone touched the journal he eyed with wonder, awe and dreadful fear coursing through him.
"Merry Christmas, Scott. How are you feeling?" The doctor asked merrily, obviously infected, as he always was, by the spirit of the holiday. He was even humming Jingle Bells underneath his breath.
To Scott, it was absolutely sickening. He loved getting and giving gifts, and now… Ororo had given him the worst possible gifts. He couldn't deal with reading Jean's personal thoughts. It felt like some sort of betrayal, and he wasn't sure if it would be right. Neither could he relive their past as a couple through pictures and small memorabilia of their time together. "I didn't sleep. I don't think I can stand, either." He answered reluctantly, unsure of how to feel towards Hank who had done him no wrong. He could feel his anger boiling as if it was in his blood. "Just fuck off, alright? I don't need you breathing down my neck, okay?" He gesticulated furiously.
"Okay, Scott." Hank answered calmly. "If you want to go upstairs, there's an extra wheelchair in the office. I was making sure it was working, testing the controls and whatnot. I hope you'll come up, I'm sure Christmas breakfast is going to be absolutely wonderful." He reminded his patient, his eyes twinkling with excitement.
Scott mumbled some form of a farewell, and waited until Hank was already in the elevator. He calculated Hank's speed of walking with the distance from the medlab to the elevator, and counted the seconds in his head. It had taken him longer than it would have, but he still had his mathematical skills. He would definitely need to sharpen his mind soon, or he would go crazy. The thought of getting his hands on his old books made him nearly giddy, but when his eyes fell on that little dark blue book, all mirth left him. His hands shook as he reached for it.
He picked it up from where he had put it after opening it and set it on his lap, considering it. When he and Jean had first been dating, he had seen her write in it a lot. He never would have thought her the type, but she had written a lot. Sometimes, he would leave her on a bench for hours outside in the sun, and would come back at twilight, searching for her, and would find her in the same position as he had left her in. He found it absolutely endearing. He never thought she would have kept it, though it made sense that she would.
He took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, Jean." He whispered, as if her spirit was right there with him, and opened to a random entry.
He had to muffle his cry when he saw her familiar, looping handwriting neatly on the provided lines. He composed himself as best as he could and forced himself to read it.
Today, Scott took me on a wonderful date. I can't believe it's our one year anniversary! I've never dated one guy for this long, but Scott… he's just different. He's interesting and engaging, and actually cares about me. He does all those little things that guys never do after a few months. He opens doors, tells me I'm beautiful whenever he sees me, calls me whenever one of us is away to make sure I'm alright. Oh, and it is SO cute the way he gets all nervous when he's trying to be casual on important days. I don't think anyone else notices, since his sunglasses cover his eyes, but I can tell. He's so adorable like that.
Anyway, the date. He took me to this intimate jazz restaurant. I'm still so giddy! He actually asked me to dance. I can't dance. I really can't, but he doesn't care at all. The way his arms felt around me, and the way he kept looking at me… I just want to spend more and more time with him. I want to take care of him and enrich his life. I want to make him happy, which would sound weird for any other guy but him. He's never acted as though he expects sex from me. He actually cares about me, and I… I never thought I would find a guy to say this about, but I love him. I love him so much. I love Scott Summers. He's… oh, I can't stop saying it! I'm even saying it aloud! I LOVE SCOTT!
I know I'm still so young to be saying that, but still, I really do. I want to tell him, but that would be weird. I don't know if he feels that way about me, even though I know without a doubt he cares for me and wants to be there for me. It is enough, but I still do want more. But you know, it won't matter to me if he doesn't find those feelings for a long time. I am in love with my boyfriend, and am willing to wait as long as it takes for him to feel the same way.
But Ororo seems to think that he's completely "besotted", to use her words. She's a great friend, and I'll tell her tomorrow about tonight. But for tonight… it's all mine. Scott's all mine for tonight, at least.
Tears began to fall down Scott's face and he reached a hand to his mouth to muffle the sobs that threatened to rip once more from his throat. He closed the journal, resolving to read it again, but not soon. He couldn't stand reading her thoughts. It was like a knife to his very soul. The wound was too near to him. Maybe in several months, or even several years, he would read it again. But not now.
Scott didn't bother reaching for the photo album. His stomach growled, and he got off of the bed, his muscles much easier to use than the day before. He still had to follow his regular morning routine; run to vomit several times in the bathroom, rinse mouth with Listerine mouthwash, and manage to weakly walk to his destination. His destination? The wheelchair. It made him look weak, pathetic and… well, he already admitted it made him look weak. Wheelchairs, however, did have their merits. He wasn't forced to walk or use his muscles much, and at the end of the day, he supposed that was what mattered most.
Stomach growling once more, he manipulated the controls to send him towards the elevator.
