FIC(let): Most Rare Vision
Fandom: X-Men Movieverse
Wordcount: 587
Description: Scott-POV. Mostly Scott/Jean, but Scott/Jean/Logan in a spiritual sense.
Rating: PG
Warning: Gratuitious Shakespeare.
Logan has eyes like a wild animal, gold irises flecked with brown.
Scott can't see this for himself, of course. The world comes to him in shades of red – filtered through ruby quartz, while the glasses are on, stained by sharp optic blasts when they aren't. Scott can't see the color of Logan's eyes, any more than Logan can see his. But he knows what they look like.
Two days after Liberty Island, two hours after Logan lit out for the territories on Scott's bike. Scott wanted to scream and throw punches and break windows, and so naturally he went down to the classroom and reorganized a drawer full of educational DVDs (by historical era instead of alphabetically; clearly, it made more sense). He was in the process of trying to decide on the appropriate cutoff date between "middle ages" and "early modern," when he heard her steps in the hall (slingback sandals, four-inch heels; when she walked, she clicked without clomping. Scott would knew those shoes anywhere).
Dropping Sir Thomas More somewhere between Erasmus and Richelieu and not giving a shit (she could save him from this type-A insanity, she was the one who always could), he stepped into the hall and called "Jean!" Talking to Jean would help; he could bitch about Logan and the bike. An emergency rescue might be one thing, but a spontaneous road trip to Canada was over the top. Scott and Hank had put that bike together themselves, this was a clear violation, and maybe Jean had a weird soft spot for the guy, but even she would have to admit –
She turned and with her gaze a flood of images streamed past Scott's senses and straight into his mind – beginning that night on the island and rushing backward; the jet, the mansion, Cerebro and the moment of contact with every mutant consciousness in the world, all pouring back into a room, at the end of the hall, staring into a pair of gold-flecked animal eyes.
"God!" Scott touched a hand to his pulsing forehead. When he looked up, Jean's own dark eyes stared at him.
"Hey sweetie." She stepped toward him. "What is it?"
He took her hand, smiled weakly, tried to make a joke. "That's how you say 'hi' now? Sending me mental pictures of the guy who stole my bike?"
She frowned. "What?"
"Yeah, seriously. For his spirit quest to Nanook of the North, or whatever. He's lucky I don't call the highway patrol."
"No, baby, I mean –" She brushed his cheek with her lips. "I didn't send you anything."
"All right." Scott kissed her back, then mumbled, "Must have been my imagination."
And, because any student of Charles Xavier's could throw out a good line of Shakespeare when she needed it, Jean whispered, "The forgeries of jealousy."
"Never." Scott touched her cheeks and then her neck. His hands moved onto her back, and he decided to let it go – not just stupid Logan and the bike but the whole crazy week, doomsday machines and dissolving politicians and runaway kids and losing his visor in a combat situation – twice – and after all that did it really matter if Jean's telepathy got away from her every once in a while? She had the right idea, to let it all be a dream.
That's what he thinks about, later, whenever he sees Logan's eyes.
"What's your problem with him, anyway?" Ororo asks.
Scott shrugs. "I don't like the way he looks at me."
END
