Epilogue: Sight Seeing
Scott stared at the blank sheet of paper, unsure what to write. He'd been writing in his journal for weeks, but he just got the courage last night to stand up in a crowd of mutants and say the dreaded, "Hi, I'm Scott, and I'm an alcoholic." The phrase still sent shivers down his spine. He knew he had to say it, but now he berated himself for breaking down like a baby in front of them. Still, at least he'd stopped blaming Ororo and the others for his own faults and owned up to the fact that he created the drinking problem—no one else did. A telepath even volunteered to help with the false psychic echoes--an ex-prostitute/drug addict, funny enough. Some weird woman named Emma Frost. She helped him close the smaller floodgates long enough so he could work on his real problem, the alcoholism. It wasn't a long term solution--he still had to deal with his emotional issues--but it was a good start.
He felt freer than he'd ever felt. Freer, definitely, than the first time he let alcohol take him down. Free enough, he thought, looking nervously through the large entry gate, to come...home.
"Take it slow, Scott," Barnes had said. "It'll be tough enough those first few moments. Don't do any more than you feel like you can handle."
It's too late for that, he thought.
He hadn't called, but he expected someone already knew he was at the front gate. It didn't take long with that many telepaths running around. But he suspected that Ororo held them off. She probably wanted to let him feel comfortable about coming back, and wanted him to make the choice for himself. Good plan, 'Ro, he thought. It's going to be hard enough to make amends with everyone.
He sighed and leaned his back against the gate, staring at the blank page again. He wanted to write something before he went in, but he wasn't sure. "Just write the first thing that comes into your head," Barnes told him, when Scott mentioned he was going home. Barnes was now his sponsor, the person he could talk to whenever he felt like slipping. Barnes was his lifeline. "Just take it one step at a time, Summers. It's a dumb cliché, but it works. Trust me. Tomorrow can take care of itself. You take care of now."
I need...I want a drink, he thought sadly. I don't want to go in there.
Suddenly, he knew what to write:
I want a drink now. I don't want to go in there. It's 1 o'clock in the afternoon, in the middle of a school session, and I'm scared to death. So scared, that I want to go back to drinking. Some leader, huh? How're they supposed to trust me again? Am I going to go into battle half-pissed? I'm worried that I won't stay sober for long.
I'm a different man now, almost a totally different person from two years ago. Is this the "me" Jeannie saw, deep inside? I'm unsure, unconfident, scared, and humbled. Is that good? Barnes says it is. He said that for the first time I'll have to discover the "true" Scott Summers—the one who isn't the super hero or the leader, the one whose spine isn't paralyzed by an iron pole. I can't be in so much control that the control controls me. God, that sounds stupid. Jeannie would be laughing now, maybe even calling me a poster boy for psychobabble. Will I be brave enough to take our things from the closet and put them back on the shelves? I guess we'll see.
Scott looked up from his writing, surprised to see a woman with purple hair smiling down at him.
"Hey," he said softly.
"Hello," she said back. A warm spring breeze blew through her hair, emphasizing the mischievous sparkle in her eyes. "Aren't you coming in?"
"In a minute. I...I just need to get some things down on paper first."
"All right," she said, nodding. She slowly turned from the gate and walked back to the mansion. He liked how her hips swayed back and forth, like Jean's. "But don't take too long. You're already two years late."
"I know. Honest, I'm coming in."
"I know," she said sweetly.
Betsy just came by. She reminds me a lot of Jean, when Jean got really...frisky. It scares me that I might have feelings for her, when I haven't even begun to deal with my emotional losses. I guess that's why I'm glad my friends haven't rejected me. They're all in there, waiting for me, as if time stood still. My kids are waiting for me to teach again. My books, my papers, my memories—everything—poised, waiting for me to make my move. I'm scared, but excited too. And relieved, because I've got a second chance, and I've still got a home to return to. Lots of folks don't.
You know, maybe I can do this. We'll see. Like Barnes said, take care of today. Tomorrow's got enough hell of its own.
--Finis--
