Disclaimer: I own nothing.
A/N: this has been sitting on one of my floppy disks... thought i may as well put it up. Please R/R, i'll luff you forever if you do!
Out of Reach
Part One
Scott wandered absently through the hallways; his feet on the wooden floor the only sound. He didn't sleep much anymore, he couldn't even though the only thing he wanted to do was fall into a blissful slumber, because when he was asleep, he was with Jean. His Jeanie, his dreams were full of her, her smile, the taste of her lips, and the smell of her hair, the feeling of his hand in hers, the soft touch of her arms when she hugged him…
Scott shook his head violently. Now he couldn't sleep at all, it was always just out of his reach, and he refused to take any pills for it. He wasn't a fool, take enough sleeping pills enough and you were hooked. He didn't need to be dependant on anything. He was Cyclops, the fearless leader who felt no pain and needed no help. Accept for that one time on the jet, a few of the students could now say, he'd broke down completely, screamed and punched and cried; Cyclops, their fearless leader, a blubbering, worthless idiot, who couldn't even look after the love of his life, his fiancée.
Midnight was such a wonderful time in the mansion's grounds, which was where his meandering feet had finally taken him. The sky was completely clear, the millions of stars like fireflies high above him, beautiful and just out of his reach, like sleep.
The canvas on which they'd been painted wasn't black, like so many people offhandedly described it -he could see black and what he saw through his shaded red visor wasn't black. To him the sky was the darkest red, elegant, never-ending, and almost majestic. A long time ago, before his mutation had manifested, he remembered staring at the sky and it being dark blues and purples, he used to stay up for hours just to stare at it when he was little, the interest had never faded as he got older, but other things that, at the time had been oh-so-much more important he'd never really done it again. Red wasn't so bad though, once you got used to it.
The moon was out tonight as well, half-crescent and what would've been gleaming white, but was now pale red, like a benevolent soul it watched over the world, lighting even the night with borrowed light.
He shivered involuntarily, his breath clouding in front of him, the tee shirt and jeans he wore not protecting from the cold all that much. He could only wear preppy clothes for so long, and that was to encourage his 'image' with the students, because he was, in reality, not all that older that some of them -and Jean liked that look. Now though, now she was gone. Now she was dead and he was alone and it was all his fault. He should've done something, anything. He should've blasted a whole through the door and gone to fetch her. But he didn't. He let her die.
Goose pimples engulfed his skin, but he didn't go inside, just kept walking. Right there, by the lake, was where he'd asked her to marry him, there was where she'd kissed him a few days before he'd taken the Professor to see Magneto and she'd left to find the teleporter, Kurt Wagner. Everywhere he went there was a memory. He couldn't escape them; they coated everything he looked at, their bathroom was filled with her scent and her perfume 'Angel', his socks arranged neatly in the door according to shade -it'd been her idea so he didn't wear odd socks, down in the lab everywhere he looked he saw something Jean had done or thought of, it was also partly the reason he wasn't sleeping. She wasn't there with him. It wasn't their bed anymore, it was his and he didn't want his own bed, he wanted to share it with her, hear her at night breathing next to him, feel her skin as he held her… now it would never happen again.
Scott ran a hand through his hair. He couldn't take it here anymore, he needed out. He needed to escape the oppressive pity and sad looks behind his back.
Breaking into a run he sprinted through the gardens, the freezing air almost painful on his lungs; he kept running. The gardens rushed by; red and black blurs in the night, and he didn't stop running, wouldn't stop or couldn't stop until he reached the garages.
He needed to leave. He needed to feel something other than memories and pain. Grabbing the set of keys to his favourite motorcycle, the one Logan had 'borrowed' whilst on his quest to find his past and gunned the engine.
It roared to life, the tank full and he swerved out of the entrance so tightly his knees barely missed the tarmac covered ground.
Jean had despised it, though she rarely said anything about it after the first few arguments, all of which were primarily about how dangerous it was. In the end they reached a compromise -he always swore a helmet and his leathers (which she bought). Tonight he had neither.
The rush was amazing.
It was a cliché, but he loved it: the wind in his hair, whipping it back from his face and the force of the speed pushing him backwards. This was why he loved it so much. This was when he felt free, more so than he did when he was flying the jet -then he had to have a co-pilot and be sure there were no other aircraft in visual vicinity, but on his bike… on his bike he didn't depend on anybody.
It wasn't until the gas dial neared the quarter left mark that common sense woke up in the back of his mind. Reluctantly, he turned around, tearing back to the mansion.
Minutes away from the mansion he banked around a near hair-clip corner tightly and he welcomed the pounding of his heart in his ears and the way his heart skipped a beat as he turned, practically horizontal.
But now he was back, the tall, iron-wrought gates admitting him entrance, even at this hour, and closed with a metallic 'clang' and sense of finality that he did not like.
He was trapped again. The ride had done little to calm his spirits in the long run, he knew, but for know he could stand the choking memories.
A/N: this has been sitting on one of my floppy disks... thought i may as well put it up. Please R/R, i'll luff you forever if you do!
Out of Reach
Part One
Scott wandered absently through the hallways; his feet on the wooden floor the only sound. He didn't sleep much anymore, he couldn't even though the only thing he wanted to do was fall into a blissful slumber, because when he was asleep, he was with Jean. His Jeanie, his dreams were full of her, her smile, the taste of her lips, and the smell of her hair, the feeling of his hand in hers, the soft touch of her arms when she hugged him…
Scott shook his head violently. Now he couldn't sleep at all, it was always just out of his reach, and he refused to take any pills for it. He wasn't a fool, take enough sleeping pills enough and you were hooked. He didn't need to be dependant on anything. He was Cyclops, the fearless leader who felt no pain and needed no help. Accept for that one time on the jet, a few of the students could now say, he'd broke down completely, screamed and punched and cried; Cyclops, their fearless leader, a blubbering, worthless idiot, who couldn't even look after the love of his life, his fiancée.
Midnight was such a wonderful time in the mansion's grounds, which was where his meandering feet had finally taken him. The sky was completely clear, the millions of stars like fireflies high above him, beautiful and just out of his reach, like sleep.
The canvas on which they'd been painted wasn't black, like so many people offhandedly described it -he could see black and what he saw through his shaded red visor wasn't black. To him the sky was the darkest red, elegant, never-ending, and almost majestic. A long time ago, before his mutation had manifested, he remembered staring at the sky and it being dark blues and purples, he used to stay up for hours just to stare at it when he was little, the interest had never faded as he got older, but other things that, at the time had been oh-so-much more important he'd never really done it again. Red wasn't so bad though, once you got used to it.
The moon was out tonight as well, half-crescent and what would've been gleaming white, but was now pale red, like a benevolent soul it watched over the world, lighting even the night with borrowed light.
He shivered involuntarily, his breath clouding in front of him, the tee shirt and jeans he wore not protecting from the cold all that much. He could only wear preppy clothes for so long, and that was to encourage his 'image' with the students, because he was, in reality, not all that older that some of them -and Jean liked that look. Now though, now she was gone. Now she was dead and he was alone and it was all his fault. He should've done something, anything. He should've blasted a whole through the door and gone to fetch her. But he didn't. He let her die.
Goose pimples engulfed his skin, but he didn't go inside, just kept walking. Right there, by the lake, was where he'd asked her to marry him, there was where she'd kissed him a few days before he'd taken the Professor to see Magneto and she'd left to find the teleporter, Kurt Wagner. Everywhere he went there was a memory. He couldn't escape them; they coated everything he looked at, their bathroom was filled with her scent and her perfume 'Angel', his socks arranged neatly in the door according to shade -it'd been her idea so he didn't wear odd socks, down in the lab everywhere he looked he saw something Jean had done or thought of, it was also partly the reason he wasn't sleeping. She wasn't there with him. It wasn't their bed anymore, it was his and he didn't want his own bed, he wanted to share it with her, hear her at night breathing next to him, feel her skin as he held her… now it would never happen again.
Scott ran a hand through his hair. He couldn't take it here anymore, he needed out. He needed to escape the oppressive pity and sad looks behind his back.
Breaking into a run he sprinted through the gardens, the freezing air almost painful on his lungs; he kept running. The gardens rushed by; red and black blurs in the night, and he didn't stop running, wouldn't stop or couldn't stop until he reached the garages.
He needed to leave. He needed to feel something other than memories and pain. Grabbing the set of keys to his favourite motorcycle, the one Logan had 'borrowed' whilst on his quest to find his past and gunned the engine.
It roared to life, the tank full and he swerved out of the entrance so tightly his knees barely missed the tarmac covered ground.
Jean had despised it, though she rarely said anything about it after the first few arguments, all of which were primarily about how dangerous it was. In the end they reached a compromise -he always swore a helmet and his leathers (which she bought). Tonight he had neither.
The rush was amazing.
It was a cliché, but he loved it: the wind in his hair, whipping it back from his face and the force of the speed pushing him backwards. This was why he loved it so much. This was when he felt free, more so than he did when he was flying the jet -then he had to have a co-pilot and be sure there were no other aircraft in visual vicinity, but on his bike… on his bike he didn't depend on anybody.
It wasn't until the gas dial neared the quarter left mark that common sense woke up in the back of his mind. Reluctantly, he turned around, tearing back to the mansion.
Minutes away from the mansion he banked around a near hair-clip corner tightly and he welcomed the pounding of his heart in his ears and the way his heart skipped a beat as he turned, practically horizontal.
But now he was back, the tall, iron-wrought gates admitting him entrance, even at this hour, and closed with a metallic 'clang' and sense of finality that he did not like.
He was trapped again. The ride had done little to calm his spirits in the long run, he knew, but for know he could stand the choking memories.