Disclaimer: See my pockets. See my pockets turn inside out. See a penny and a stick of gum fall out. See the X-Men belonging to Marvel etc.
Author's Note: What am I doing writing a Scott/Jean fic? I don't know. There are probably dozens of stories identical to this one, probably several with the exact same title. Logan isn't in it anywhere, and neither is Rogue. I blame this one on pod people, but I hope you enjoy it anyway.
Her fingers slid cool against his temples, tucking the hard plastic frames behind his ears.
"You can open them now."
"I really don't think this is safe without Professor Xavier here."
A sigh. "I told you, we ran all the tests before he left. These are perfectly safe."
Logically he knew she was right. Xavier trusted some of the finest minds in science to develop the method, and the woman standing before him has been on the project from the beginning -- a fact which he supposed would leave him forever in her debt.
If this worked, as she assured him it would, it would mean more than a blind man regaining sight. The blind didn't level Manhattan when they opened their eyes.
Still he could not force himself.
Her hands crept over his in the perpetual darkness. He logged details as he'd learned to do so well. Nails short and neatly trimmed, unpolished. Palms lightly callused. Skin warm. "Scott. Trust me."
"Okay."
She paused, and he imagined the shake of her head. Thought he could smell the shampoo emanating from her hair. It occurred to him that he didn't even know what color it was.
"Tell me whether I'm wearing my hair up or down," she said. Immediately his face grew tight. Human expression was difficult to read without seeing the eyes, but his face was so open and honest, she had little trouble. It was one of the reasons she enjoyed his company. His voice could be controlled and even, but the set of his mouth and the direction of his brows betrayed him every time. Not having seen his own face in so long, he didn't even realize he was doing it.
Now she watched the play of emotions as if it was staged. Fear, defensive hostility, concern for her safety. She gave his hands a supportive squeeze. That did the trick; now she could see pride and determination in his expression. She grinned. The man-look, bred into them. Can't show weakness before a female of the tribe.
*I **am** of your tribe, Scott. Not by blood, but by circumstance.*
He raised one hand to his head, making sure the glasses were firmly in place.
And then Scott Summers opened his eyes for the first time in three months, and so first beheld fellow mutant Jean Grey.
The ground roared out from under him, and he snapped his jaw shut before it could follow. Beautiful. She was beautiful. Younger that he'd thought from her voice, not much older than himself.
She was waiting, eyes wide.
Eyes. He blinked and realized belatedly that everything had a reddish tint. It reminded him of playing space aliens with his brother when they were small, taping plastic picnic cups over their eyes to get the googly effect. Only his vision was clearer, as clear as normal sight. Just tinted red.
He looked at Jean again. Hair down, he noted, and God, the color of it . . . red, red, redder than anything he'd ever seen. The reddest red there could be. His brain couldn't come up with any poetic similes at the moment. It shone, it shimmered, it tumbled over her shoulders in waves that captured his attention and refused to let go. He reached out to touch it with the same reverence commonly shown for holy relics and large amounts of money.
Jean stood frozen as his fingers lightly stroked her hair, her eyes locked with his. Except that was ridiculous, because the glasses hid his eyes. He could be studying the grain pattern in the wood wall panel behind her. And yet she knew -- she *knew*, without benefit of telepathy, that his eyes were fixed on her own. And the invisible gaze awakened a great calm within her, one she hadn't felt since the shroud of normal childhood had fallen from her face.
It lasted several moments, an eternity. Then they dropped their eyes to the floor simultaneously. A blush rose to Scott's cheeks, giving the shade of his glasses a run for its money. Jean let out a nervous giggle before putting the moment behind her, a pragmatist to the core. She began to explain the visor that would allow him to control the optic blasts.
~~~~~~~~
We'll be landing at JFK in twenty minutes.
I'll be waiting at the gate. Should I get her anything from the gift shops?
No, I imagine she'll be fine. But Jean, dear, are you all right?
Of course. Why wouldn't I be?
You seem . . . distracted. Flustered.
I'm sorry, Professor, it's hard to talk even at this short distance.
I understand. But you're improving greatly. And how is Scott?
Scott is . . . fine.
~~~~~~~~
Charles Xavier leaned back in his seat. The pale-haired girl beside him was captivated by the window view, her fingers splayed against the thick glass, as they'd been for the whole flight.
His students were gifted, that was no question. And Xavier himself happened to be one of the most powerful mutants alive. His numerous abilities did not include fortune telling, but sometimes simple foresight served just as well. It told him now that a new path was being forged from two existing paths. The journey had begun. He only wished for enough years to see its progress.
Additional Note: I know Famke's hair wasn't the reddest of reds in the movie, but Scott has the benefit of ruby quartz
Author's Note: What am I doing writing a Scott/Jean fic? I don't know. There are probably dozens of stories identical to this one, probably several with the exact same title. Logan isn't in it anywhere, and neither is Rogue. I blame this one on pod people, but I hope you enjoy it anyway.
Her fingers slid cool against his temples, tucking the hard plastic frames behind his ears.
"You can open them now."
"I really don't think this is safe without Professor Xavier here."
A sigh. "I told you, we ran all the tests before he left. These are perfectly safe."
Logically he knew she was right. Xavier trusted some of the finest minds in science to develop the method, and the woman standing before him has been on the project from the beginning -- a fact which he supposed would leave him forever in her debt.
If this worked, as she assured him it would, it would mean more than a blind man regaining sight. The blind didn't level Manhattan when they opened their eyes.
Still he could not force himself.
Her hands crept over his in the perpetual darkness. He logged details as he'd learned to do so well. Nails short and neatly trimmed, unpolished. Palms lightly callused. Skin warm. "Scott. Trust me."
"Okay."
She paused, and he imagined the shake of her head. Thought he could smell the shampoo emanating from her hair. It occurred to him that he didn't even know what color it was.
"Tell me whether I'm wearing my hair up or down," she said. Immediately his face grew tight. Human expression was difficult to read without seeing the eyes, but his face was so open and honest, she had little trouble. It was one of the reasons she enjoyed his company. His voice could be controlled and even, but the set of his mouth and the direction of his brows betrayed him every time. Not having seen his own face in so long, he didn't even realize he was doing it.
Now she watched the play of emotions as if it was staged. Fear, defensive hostility, concern for her safety. She gave his hands a supportive squeeze. That did the trick; now she could see pride and determination in his expression. She grinned. The man-look, bred into them. Can't show weakness before a female of the tribe.
*I **am** of your tribe, Scott. Not by blood, but by circumstance.*
He raised one hand to his head, making sure the glasses were firmly in place.
And then Scott Summers opened his eyes for the first time in three months, and so first beheld fellow mutant Jean Grey.
The ground roared out from under him, and he snapped his jaw shut before it could follow. Beautiful. She was beautiful. Younger that he'd thought from her voice, not much older than himself.
She was waiting, eyes wide.
Eyes. He blinked and realized belatedly that everything had a reddish tint. It reminded him of playing space aliens with his brother when they were small, taping plastic picnic cups over their eyes to get the googly effect. Only his vision was clearer, as clear as normal sight. Just tinted red.
He looked at Jean again. Hair down, he noted, and God, the color of it . . . red, red, redder than anything he'd ever seen. The reddest red there could be. His brain couldn't come up with any poetic similes at the moment. It shone, it shimmered, it tumbled over her shoulders in waves that captured his attention and refused to let go. He reached out to touch it with the same reverence commonly shown for holy relics and large amounts of money.
Jean stood frozen as his fingers lightly stroked her hair, her eyes locked with his. Except that was ridiculous, because the glasses hid his eyes. He could be studying the grain pattern in the wood wall panel behind her. And yet she knew -- she *knew*, without benefit of telepathy, that his eyes were fixed on her own. And the invisible gaze awakened a great calm within her, one she hadn't felt since the shroud of normal childhood had fallen from her face.
It lasted several moments, an eternity. Then they dropped their eyes to the floor simultaneously. A blush rose to Scott's cheeks, giving the shade of his glasses a run for its money. Jean let out a nervous giggle before putting the moment behind her, a pragmatist to the core. She began to explain the visor that would allow him to control the optic blasts.
~~~~~~~~
We'll be landing at JFK in twenty minutes.
I'll be waiting at the gate. Should I get her anything from the gift shops?
No, I imagine she'll be fine. But Jean, dear, are you all right?
Of course. Why wouldn't I be?
You seem . . . distracted. Flustered.
I'm sorry, Professor, it's hard to talk even at this short distance.
I understand. But you're improving greatly. And how is Scott?
Scott is . . . fine.
~~~~~~~~
Charles Xavier leaned back in his seat. The pale-haired girl beside him was captivated by the window view, her fingers splayed against the thick glass, as they'd been for the whole flight.
His students were gifted, that was no question. And Xavier himself happened to be one of the most powerful mutants alive. His numerous abilities did not include fortune telling, but sometimes simple foresight served just as well. It told him now that a new path was being forged from two existing paths. The journey had begun. He only wished for enough years to see its progress.
Additional Note: I know Famke's hair wasn't the reddest of reds in the movie, but Scott has the benefit of ruby quartz