* * *
AN Update:
I'm always a little reluctant to offer revisions…I feel like I'm mucking up the original. However, this piece needed it, and a number of people wanted to see more scenes—at the time, I couldn't write the painful details. But DV wouldn't leave me alone! It wasn't finished, and I had to finish before I could move on. This story was difficult to write. It physically hurt. But it needed to be written.
On a positive note, I was able to explore more of Scott and Ororo's relationship as friends, which was an unexpected bonus. I really didn't see that bit coming.
So without further adieu, Double Vision, Revisited…
* * *
Part One: Eyes Wide Shut
I didn't expect that it would happen so soon. I mean sure, thirty, forty—maybe even fifty—years down the line. I expected that we would get old and gray together. Gray...some play on words. If it weren't so damned sad I'd laugh.
So why am I writing this down? Because they made me do it. To stay, I have to give them a record of what happened. I told them I really didn't feel like talking about it so they said write a damn diary. What am I, sixteen? My students would laugh at me. Yeah... My students. Those kids aren't mine anymore, are they? I lost them a long time ago, after I lost myself...
I can't do this. I don't want to remember.
______________
Jean had loved this time of year. The transition between summer and fall made her steps light as she anticipated the rush of new kids, and she loved playing in the last rays of the summer sun. She'd force Scott to go to Hilton Head beach, even when he thought the water was getting ice cold, and she'd stuff sand down his shirt like one of their students. She glowed during these times, as brightly as a pregnant woman would. "Soon," she would whisper in her husband's ear, "we'll have children, and you can stuff sand down their shirts, and teach them how to swim against the breakers. Next year. Let's make plans for next year. "
We never had the chance, Jean. Why?
Ororo was crying, and she never cried. Rain fell from the sky and mixed with her tears, marring her flawless dark skin with thin, wet streaks. The rain was her doing. He admired her for not holding back this time. He wanted to cry like that, wished he could, but he was still in shock. Jean and Professor Xavier...Dead. It didn't make sense. Nothing did anymore.
Scott Summers skimmed the large, somber gathering. Logan, Ororo, Hank, and the school's newest teacher, Kurt Wagner, comforted as many children as they could but it was impossible to help all of them. The sea of damp faces cried out for answers; he didn't have any. A fluke, Hank said. An accident. Some new mutant with the power to create a psychic feedback loop got scared when the Professor and Jean tried to help him. The more they tried to calm him down, the more nervous he got...they didn't realize how powerful he was and he ended up burning out his own brain along with theirs. Sad and ironic, that a child they were trying to help ended up helping them to an early grave. It wasn't the kid's fault. He wasn't the enemy; he was one of their own. An accident, like Hank said. A fluke.
Logan tipped his chin to him, nodding his condolences while squeezing Ororo's shoulder in an uncharacteristically tender gesture. Scott would've appreciated the gesture, if he didn't feel so shocked. He mechanically tossed in a rose and said good-bye to his wife as the pallbearers threw in their shovels of dirt. They hadn't even been married a whole year. No anniversaries, no babies, no—
His throat twitched. Jean, he cried in his thoughts, but their psychic link was irrevocably severed. His mind echoed in darkness, and he was painfully, utterly alone. Professor…I can't do this by myself. Don't leave me. Jean…Dammit, you can't be gone. Just answer me…
"I'm sorry, Scott," Ororo whispered. Had the funeral finished? "If you need anything—"
"No. I'm fine," he said. His voice was hollow.
She squeezed his hand. "We will get through this. All of us, together."
"Yep."
One by one the mourners left the site, saying goodbye to both Jean and Charles in their own way. Everyone said something, or touched him in some way, but he barely heard them. He vaguely remembered Jean's Dad trying to speak with him, and her mother telling him to let it be. Did they blame him? He would have. Not only was he the team leader, but he should have also protected their daughter. He was their son-in-law, and he failed them miserably. Jean's parents stayed with him for a while until they left him in the rain. When he was finally by himself, he squeezed his eyes tight, unable to see anything but the death mask of his wife's shocked, frightened face.
He blinked. The rain had stopped; his suit was simply damp, not soaking wet. He had been standing, staring at the mound of cold, wet earth for more than an hour. Perhaps two.
Suddenly he wasn't sure what to do.
"Boathouse," he murmured to himself. Sounded like a good enough idea. He trudged behind the mansion, secretly glad for the solitude. He didn't want a whole lot of people telling him how sorry they were, or asking him if he needed anything. Yes, they were only being polite, but he couldn't really answer how he felt right now. Stunned was a good enough word. Shocked was better. But neither of those words really did his feelings justice. After all, how was he supposed to feel, now that his surrogate father and the love of his life were both dead?
When he stumbled up the steps of the boathouse and entered the front room, the memories from their pictures and trinkets rushed him like high tide. "No," he said, gently pushing the images to a colder, more rational place. Jeannie and Charles were dead, end of story. He pushed back the anger, the bitterness, the sadness. He didn't have time for it. Instead, he took out a large cardboard box from one of the closets and a bottle of red wine from the cupboard and put each memory of Her into the box. His fingers shook in the beginning, especially when he caressed their wedding photo. But the wine helped him do what he had to do. When he'd finished, and Jean was no longer part of the house, he had unconsciously gone through two and a half bottles of wine. Still, he hadn't shattered.
Numb....That was the word. Numb felt good.
_______________
Over the next few weeks, Kurt Wagner's skills proved invaluable, and Scott didn't have to face the hallways of sad and lonely faces. The kids crammed into the former priest's philosophy classes to talk about Jean and the Professor, and Kurt used his pastoral skills to counsel the children and bring them closer together. Scott was beyond pleased. He didn't have had the strength to answer any of their "whys." He was their new Professor X, and he had to fight the banks and the lawyers, and he had to reassure the parents that the school would stay open. He had to keep the requisitions filled, make sure that everyone had the right supplies. What was easy for a telepath was downright impossible for one man.
"I need a blasted secretary," he muttered. It didn't help that his head was throbbing, either.
//Bampf// "I hear Warren Worthington has an excellent receptionist."
Scott jumped. "Dammit, Kurt, I wish you'd stop popping in like that."
Wagner smiled. His fanged, white teeth clashed eerily against his blue fur and yellow eyes. "Sorry. I knocked, but since you didn't answer I didn't think you were here. I only teleported in for one of the Professor's excellent commentaries on St. Paul. His book collection ist Wonderbar."
Kurt's forked tail twitched mischievously as he skimmed through the thick books but Scott ignored him. He had to have the financial books balanced before the IRS audit next week, and things weren't looking too good.
"Ausgezeichnet--! Here it is. Part two of Stanley's research. Ever read it, Scott?"
"I'm a little busy here, Kurt. I don't have time for philosophical debates."
Kurt leafed through the pages with a small smile on his fuzzy face. "Ah, you should make time. At least for the Bible—it can be a comfort. You know, it seems as if you haven't had time for many things, mien freund."
"I wonder why. It's not like I lost my wife or anything, or that the school isn't falling apart." Scott rubbed his forehead warily. "Sorry. That was uncalled for."
"Nicht möglich! Not really. Why shouldn't you have said it?" Kurt blinked at him with his gleaming eyes, but Scott couldn't tell what the man was thinking. "You really should talk to someone, Scott. You stay in the Professor's office, you work late, and you go to bed. That isn't much of a life."
Scott slammed his pen on the desk. "What, I'm supposed to celebrate now that my wife's dead? Throw the school a goddamn party? Paint the town?"
"Nein, that's not what I meant," Kurt said softly. He sauntered over to the desk and placed three thick fingers on Scott's tense shoulder. "Your friends worry about you. You aren't giving yourself the freedom to grieve, and you're trying to pretend as if nothing's happened. You are not the Professor, and no one's asking you to take his place. Please, if you need help, ask for it. We are here for you."
"I'm fine, Kurt." Scott shrugged Kurt's hand loose and half-laughed, half-snorted while slapping a stack of documents across his desk. "All I need is a freakin' secretary to get out from under this mound of paperwork."
If Scott's flip retort surprised Kurt, the mutant didn't show it. "Sehr gut. But my door is always open, ja? I shall call Herr Worthington tomorrow and ask if he knows of any good secretaries who are willing to work for a bunch of high maintenance mutants. If any exist."
"Yeah. Good luck." Kurt grinned and left Scott to his calculations. "Wait, Kurt—"
"Ja?"
"Thanks."
"Anytime, Scott."
____________
Thinking back, I probably should've taken him up on his advice. I don't mean for the secretary--Warren actually found us a good one: A telepath named Betsy Braddock. Not only did she help with all the admin garbage, but she could teach, too. She even took some of Jean's chemistry classes. As far as I know, she's probably still at the mansion.
But I was probably even more on guard after talking with Kurt. I hate looking like some charity case. I'm not that good at asking for help—I'm used to giving orders, not accepting them. I tell people what to do, and I expect people to follow what I say. Logan calls me "stiff" and maybe I can be inflexible. But I have to do it my way, on my own terms, or I feel...well, lost. Surprises bother me. If that makes me cold sometimes, I'm sorry. It's just who I am.
Sometimes cold is good.
______________
He shivered because of the dream. The more he wanted to get on with his life the more the dream kept interrupting it. She was screaming behind a locked door he couldn't open. Xavier was shouting in his ear, "Help her, Scott! You are our savior. Scott--!" He would smash the door with his fists, hit it with his optic blasts, but it never opened. And then suddenly the door would fly back on its own and he saw their bodies…thick, meaty chunks, bloody and clawed. Raw and fresh.
You did this to us, Xavier's echo accused. You killed us.
He smelled her perfume but the female echo touching his mind was both shadow and ice. Scott? Didn't you love me enough to save me? Why didn't you help me? Why?
"I did my best…"
It wasn't enough, Scott. You weren't good enough. I thought you loved me. I married you and you didn't protect me. Why?
"I'm sorry! I did my best!"
It wasn't enough…
An arm yanked him from his desk, shattering his dark thoughts.
"C'mon."
"What the hell--?" He'd been fidgeting with the metal band around his finger and didn't notice Logan's approach. He felt embarrassed that the man caught him consumed by his thoughts. "Wolverine, I've got stuff to do. Go away."
"Fuck the stuff." He dragged him out of Xavier's office. "You've been mopin' in that tomb for more'n a month now. It ain't healthy."
"It's my job," Scott spat between his teeth. "And who're you to talk about healthy, smoking cigars all day? I don't have time for your games. I've got--"
"You got nothin'," Logan muttered. "It's Friday night, most the brats're gone for the weekend, and your shit ain't due for 'nother two weeks. It's time."
"Time for what?"
Logan grinned, and it scared him. "For some fun."
* * *
They had the audacity to kidnap him and drag him off to some greasy dive near Harlem, where no one cared what you looked like as long as you had money to pay for drinks. No one gave Kurt's tail a second glance, or gave Hank's huge blue girth so much as a shrug. Better yet, they weren't the only obvious mutants in the place.
"Where'd you find this lockup?"
"Yellow Pages," Logan retorted. He filled Scott's glass with a noxious substance. "Drink up."
"Forget it."
"If you don't, you'll never get outta here."
Scott drained his glass. "Happy? Now let's go."
"Ah, c'mon, mon ami." The fifth of their motley band was a new kid, Remy LeBeau. He was older than the students at the school but the youngest at their table. He'd been pitching in with the covert missions from time to time, ever since Scott took over running the school.
"You can't be dat bored dis soon. We got a whole night planned."
"Great. Is this Boy's Night your bright idea, Logan?"
"Nope," he said, swigging his beer. "But you wouldn't believe me if I told you who suggested it."
"Try me."
Hank laughed. "Ororo thought it would help lighten your mood."
"Ororo? No way. She'd never suggest something like this."
"Tell you what, homme, dat woman full o'surprises."
The entire table chucked and glanced at Logan, but Scott just shook his head. "And she was the sane one. A teacher mutiny...Just what I need."
"Trust me," Hank said, sipping his wine. "It is."
"You stiffer than a starched shirt in January," Remy muttered, downing his bourbon with a sharp hiss. "You need to relax, homme. Take your mind off de world a while."
"I'm fine," Scott said, but the words rang hollow even in his ears. He tuned out the laughs that followed and stared miserably around the room. He could've been at the mansion, could've been planning next week's budget, keeping track of—
His eyes landed on a gorgeous redhead laughing at the bar. Even though he saw nothing but crimson, courtesy of his ruby quartz glasses, he knew the exact tint of his wife's hair. That woman had it, down to the last strand.
"Well?" Kurt asked.
"What—? Sorry. I—I wasn't listening." He tugged his ring finger, noticed that his glass had been refilled, and drank the contents quickly. It felt smooth and warm.
Kurt nodded at the gold circlet, rubbed dull by Scott's nervous hands. "I asked if you've given yourself time to grieve yet."
Scott's jaw tightened as he glanced at the other men around the table. Remy was telling them some dirty joke, and the attention—and the pressure—had shifted away from him. "I guess so. I don't think about it."
"At all?"
"No. Why should I?" He found the bottle that had been going around the table and filled his shot glass. "It's not like there's anything I can do. I've got to go on with my life. For the sake of the school."
"'For the sake of the school,'" Kurt repeated slowly. He watched Scott massage his wedding band with his thumb. "Interesting choice of words."
"What are you, my shrink?"
"No, just your average pop philosopher. A rather bad one, at that."
Scott smiled a little. "Yeah, well, cut it out. I'm dealing with it in my own way. The only way I know how. I'll get through it. I don't really want to talk about it."
"I heard you tossed out Jean's pictures and mementos."
Scott tapped his glass on the table dangerously. "I told you, Kurt, I'm dealing with it my own way. Besides, I didn't burn them; I just put them away. I don't want to talk about it, and I want you to quit riding my case."
"Fair enough." Kurt nodded and raised his glass in a small salute. "To idle chit-chat, then."
"To chit-chat," Scott echoed. He drank, enjoying the sudden, creeping coldness spreading throughout his body. He needed to feel cold. If he were cold he didn't have to think. Or remember.
_____________
…. I can get into my cocoon and shut out the rest of the world, and I can safely remember her, and forget it all at the same time--the more I remember, the more numb I can become. It's the only way I can get rid of this damn, sightless hole in my gut….
I admit that it worked. I learned how to destroyed my soul.
_____________
The midnight air was crisp, chilly. It reminded him of the first time he met Her, during a fall evening mixer for Xavier's students. She had been talking with a beautiful mocha-skinned woman with snow-white hair—naturally white hair, he discovered, and part of her mutation. Although he was awestruck by the white haired goddess, his heart skipped when he saw the redhead. Jean smiled at him, and he fell in love on the spot.
"Scott? What are you doing up this late?"
He looked up, blinking. A gentle breeze touched a lock of his hair, as if the person speaking had swept her fingers through it, and Ororo Munroe landed delicately next to him. The first time he'd seen her fly he nearly choked. How in the world could she stay aloft without falling? The physics of it baffled him. Between her relationship with Jean, and his persistent questions regarding the mathematics of her flying abilities, they had become like brother and sister.
"Couldn't sleep, 'Ro."
She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "You really should try. It's late."
"I could tell you the same thing."
She smiled that funny little Mona Lisa smile of hers. It was the closest she came to laughing out loud without opening her mouth.
"Late date?"
She nodded.
"With Wolverine?"
She smiled again and hugged her shoulders proudly. "On his bike. I had never ridden one before. Logan convinced me that it wasn't as dangerous as I believed it to be."
"Did you like it?"
"Very much. It reminds me of flying with far more dangerous thrills." He was laughing at her and she squeezed his cheeks. "Now I see why you love it so."
Scott's laughter abruptly stopped when her eyes searched his a little too closely. She lightly traced the contours on his stubbled face and pursed her lips. "Do not make me worry about you. You are too thin, and you never sleep—"
"I'll be fine."
"I am concerned, Scott," she pressed.
"Ororo, I'm fine." He jerked his chin from her fingers and was about to wave her away until he saw the anger in her eyes. She made that same face when they were young, when he did something she didn't like. It made him feel weak, like a cornered animal.
"Are you?"
"Cut it out, 'Ro," he said quietly. He glanced at the ground and the night wind sent a strand of her hair into his face. "Don't treat me like an invalid—or worse, my mother. It was okay when we were kids and I didn't know any better. But I'm a big boy now."
She folded her arms, unconvinced. "Then why did you transfer the X-man leadership role to me?"
"Because I needed to," he said, turning his back. His eyes followed a fallen leaf whipping in circles in the wind. "I can't be both Headmaster and X-man at the same time. Besides, you've got the skills. You've certainly taken the helm better than I have of late."
She spun him around. "You informed me by e-mail, Scott, without asking me. You avoided me to keep me from discussing this with you and you've never done that before. And I refuse to believe the excuses that you are too tired to command the X-Men and that you are 'too busy' with administrative duties. You love leading the covert team. It's your heart, your passion. You wouldn't give it up unless something was seriously wrong."
He pinched the bridge of his nose. He couldn't lie to telepaths, and he couldn't lie to Ororo. That was the problem; she was too close to him. He grabbed a stone from the ground and flung it over her shoulder, where it echoed sharply off a tree. He waffled between telling her the truth and screaming, it's none of your fucking business.
"You aren't going to let this go, are you?"
"No. Not until you admit that Jean's death is seriously affecting your reasons for leaving the X-Men."
"You don't think I should leave? Then give me a good reason to stay." He rubbed his hands across his face and stuffed down his anger. "Someone's got to run the school, right? Hell, the deaths should've impacted all of us. It's like everyone fucking forgot that detail except me." He sighed and hunkered to his knees, softly caressing another stone. "Sorry. Excuse my language."
"No apologies are necessary. At least you're getting angry, which is something." He stiffened as she touched his shoulder. "Scott, we've been friends for a long time. I love you. You don't have to keep to yourself--let me help."
He jumped to his feet and jammed his hands in his coat pockets. She didn't understand. Nobody did. Not even Ms. Braddock, their new resident telepath. Not one person came close to his hell. He missed Jean's presence in his mind. He missed her soul, her random thoughts. He missed her small mental boosts of confidence through the day, especially when a student acted up. Death had to be easier for telepaths. When they died, they just…died. But his mind felt as empty as a school hallway the first day of summer break. Couldn't everyone leave him the hell alone?
"You and Logan are seeing a lot of each other lately."
He barely saw the quirk on her dark lips. "I suppose so. But I am not worried about him."
"Maybe you should be. You ever think how your relationship with him could compromise the team?"
Her snowy eyebrow shot up. "You and Jean didn't have any problems."
"Jean and I knew each other since we were kids," he said, pacing the ground. "You barely know Logan. We don't even know what he's capable of. You've sworn to respect life, and he's a killer. You really think it's going to work out?" He clucked his tongue at the look of optimism on her face. "Come on, 'Roro. Even you can't be that dense."
He saw a small flash of anger in her eyes. It's okay for you to be in control, but not me, eh, 'Ro?
"My relationship with Logan is none of your business."
Scott came directly behind her and purposely put his lips close to her ear. He whispered softly, but the intensity and anger in his voice parted the hair on her temple. "And the way I handle my personal problems is none of yours."
He was halfway to the mansion when she spoke again. She spoke softly, but her voice carried on the wind, hitting his sensitive ears. "Perhaps, Scott, but I am not the one running from the truth."
He neither turned nor answered her.
____________
Human beings had to sleep. All the textbooks said so; all the articles ever written on sleep deprivation said so. Without sleep, the human mind would hallucinate. The body would break down. Madness would result. So yes, Scott found it easy to justify what he did—he had to sleep, right? Pills made him gag, and he didn't like the unpredictability of medication. And pills weren't soothing, like a spring rain. They didn't massage his muscles or loosen his joints with any kind of tenderness. Pills didn't taste or smell like birthdays or holidays or promotions or special occasions. They didn't remind him of skiing weekends or of anniversaries or of dinners with loved ones. They didn't erase bad memories as soon as they came. They didn't blot out the pain like a thick, down comforter.
He dreaded the night. He couldn't shut his eyes without experiencing psychic echoes of Jean's voice and presence. He slowly realized that it just made logical sense to down a few shots to help him sleep. Every time he heard Her pleas he could put up his liquid mental shields and the Professor's accusing voice would fade. The liquid cocoon made him stronger and more confident. He found he could deal with people again and put up with incessant questions and fighting kids and classroom chaos. He had to avoid the harder questions for a while, but he could do that. The others wouldn't have to worry about him anymore. The whole plan had such a simple solution. All he needed was some good nights of sleep, without the dreams. He'd just do this just for a while, until he could really be himself again. He'd be back to his old self in no time. Better, maybe. He just had to wait until his mind sorted it out.
