Scott didn't believe in sleeping more than a few minutes past six. The day was meant to be used, which implied one had to be awake during it. Difficult to tell, ahead of time, how much waking up could come to depend on external factors – unrelated to the reasons one got up in the first place. Training, missions, duty . . . Strange that although Scott got up earlier than Jean, usually, that he would wake up and she would be there was some subconscious spur to get him out of bed that much faster. Perhaps it was a reason she left him. She was the telepath, he was not. He was forced to guess and second guess her thought processes, her exact reasoning, just like the rest of the human race. But, he was aware that it was often the thousand petty details, not the emotional cataclysms, that caused a divergence, or, rather, a severance of paths. If it seemed sudden to him, it was certainly not sudden to her. At least, he was aware of this intellectually.
Or perhaps not. Scott rose to a sitting position, one hand clapped over his glasses in a protective, paranoid habit mostly squelched in his late adolescence. He lowered his hand, placed it knuckle-flat on the sheets. What would have changed, no, what would have not changed if Logan hadn't blipped on Cerebro, if Scott and Storm hadn't flown out to rescue him, or, rather, bring him back here.
Did it even matter?
Jean had died, maybe, technically, maybe technically. Had survived, had resurrected, had reincarnated. Maybe. Had come back Jean, but different, almost Jean, more Jean, Jean and something-else. Maybe. Less patient, less willing to tolerate certain rituals, and certain lacks, that had been established months and months back. More irritable, more likely to express need in strong terms. And Scott found himself unable to answer concerns, or, better, fix them, ameliorate them, any of this. What concerns they were. Not enough intimacy. Too protective. Too possessive. Too easily distracted by the concrete, the machinery, and the simulations. And when he made overtures in the indicated directions, he was too passive, sullen, and it was perhaps true that he had less proficiency for changing his emotional outlook than making alterations to a briefing, or a tactic. It might well have seemed forced, but it was heartfelt. He thought. It was easy to say something was what it wasn't, quite, after going it over and over again, with more than an edge of self-justification.
That Logan loved, or, at least, lusted after Jean – this was not a surprise. This did not change. That Logan had shown such admirable reserve and strength after Jean's temporary demise might have been shock, might have been a capability to bury intense feelings, might have been a shallowness of feeling. That Logan had reacted better than Scott had, quicker, more appropriate, more passionate, was perhaps also not a surprise. An embarrassment, perhaps. Something to knot the gut. But, at first, Jean had come back to him anyway.
It was, Scott mused, moving his legs in a slow angle off the bed, perhaps another reason she had left him. That anyway. 'In spite of everything.' 'In spite of opportunity.' 'In spite of temptation.' He still had this nagging thought at the back of his mind that she'd slept with Logan before leaving him, maybe once, maybe twice, maybe more. It was something he'd never dared voice out loud – he had sensed his position tenuous as stood, and any direct push like that would break . . . something. But in wondering . . .
When Scott was not there, Logan was – either he saw it, or was sure of it. He caught them once, or watched them – caught was too active a word. In the recreation room, playing pool, talking quietly, Jean earnest, Logan receptive, that cigar tilted a little less aggressively, all confidante kindness. Bad sign. Perhaps worse than catching them mid-embrace, or kiss, or even sex.
Jean hadn't been like that with him. Not since her death and return. Perhaps, he wondered, in his grimmer moments, when all memories were cast flat and false and empty, ever.
The leaving had come a full month later. He wasn't sure what he'd caught them in – beginning? Middle? Beginning of the end? It had been very civil, very rational, very understanding, very 'we just aren't compatible any more,' but less 'it's not you, it's me' than he expected.
No, it was 'it's not me, it's you.' He hadn't adjusted enough. He hadn't compared to Logan, in some invisible way that he couldn't hope to measure, or adjust to. Something. She had stayed with him out of loyalty, not love, perhaps.
Scott put great value in loyalty, but the idea of a relationship based on that, solely that, while the partner yearned removed and imprisoned . . .
It made even him slightly nauseous.
Scott stood up, and went to the closet, opened it. Removed a shirt, red, like all his shirts. Or might as well be red. "Free as a bird," he said under his breath. He let the shirt drop to the base of the closet in a crumpled mess and went back to bed.