Hello again everyone, I apologize for the delay in this one, I seemed to have lost my stamina. I'd like to say I'd be updating more frequently, but I'll be in the Bahamas all this week, and after that I just don't know...But I'll do my best!

I'd also like to take a moment to point out some inconsistencies in my plot before my all-too intelligent reviewers (yes, I'm being sincere,) get to, and make me look like a fool. When Scott first "comes around" I mentioned he had lithium and ibuprofen among his affects—a contextual error which has now been rectified. In all actuality, mixing the two drugs can have negative effects, so sorry about that. Someone needs to be more careful with their research (blushes.)

While I'm here I might as well apologize for the fact that my chapters are getting progressively shorter. And again, a big thanks to all my faithful readers!

Chapter Seven: Scars

The elevator jerked ever so slightly upon reaching the basement level. Scott immerged from the pine-wood paneled chamber into the chrome-plated world of the subbasement of the school. His heels clicked persistently on the immaculately tiled floor as he made his way down the tunneled halls to the medical bay of the subbasement. There was a hydraulic hiss of compressed air as the automatic door slid open and Scott entered the lab.

"Scott." Dr. McCoy greeted him warmly, approaching Scott in his typical bestial stride, wrapping him very briefly in a fond hug. "It's good to see you alive." Scott raised an eyebrow appraisingly.

"Thanks," he replied blandly.

"I meant that sincerely," Hank offered him in a low, rich voice. Scott sighed and shook his head.

"I'm sorry," he answered regrettably. "It's just hard to wrap my head around...You all really believed I was dead—for two and a half years. I mean it's crazy, how could something like this happen?"

"You feel as though we gave up on you," Hank replied knowingly as he washed his slightly fuzzy, blue hands meticulously. "You should know it wasn't like that—not once. Ten weeks, we searched, for any indication, any passing whisper or hint that would lead us to believe that you were still alive. There was nothing. Now I can't explain how it is that you seemed to fall off the proverbial face of the earth, but you must understand there had to be a point when we stopped searching and went on with our lives." Scott sat and tried to listen to the doctor's argument patiently, despite the sickness that was settling into his stomach.

"Now, none of us were cavalier about moving on," Hank assured him. "Least of all Jean. She was torn to pieces at loosing you—she stopped sleeping, stopped eating, stopped speaking—the minute any of us got to close she'd throw a telekinetic temper-tantrum, she simply didn't want to function." Scott shook his head, hating himself for having ever caused her so much pain.

"And then one day, Logan got through to her," Hank continued carefully. Scott's head shot to attention, meeting Hank's gaze. "Because he told her that she had to be strong, and live her life, because it's what you would have wanted for her." Scott scoffed audibly in disbelief at the man's audacity.

"Now perhaps it seems wrong to you, for him to have taken that liberty," the doctor concluded, gauging his reaction. "But the way she was living, I know it would have broken your heart to see her that way..."

"I would always want her to be happy," Scott defended. "And I would never want her to stop enjoying her life—but I wish she could have done it in a way that we could have picked up the pieces again..."

"It's very understandably," Hank agreed. "But you must realize the situation Jean was in: you weren't coming back, and she is unfortunately not as young as she once was, and she desperately wanted to have a baby. You can't possibly blame her for the choices she's made, despite the pain I know they're causing you now..."

"I'm not mad at Jean," Scott insisted firmly. "I could never be mad at her...but Logan—"

"Now you're being unfair," Dr. McCoy warned. "Logan has never taken advantage of Jean—she's far too intelligent to allow for that—and he genuinely loves her and their daughter. Truth be told, he's become a rather invaluable asset to our little mutant community." Scott swore under his breath, Hank rolled his eyes slightly.

"Well, that being said, I'm sure you'd like to get this over with," he offered finally, pulling on a pair of latex gloves. "If you could just slip off your shoes and step up on the scale." Scott stepped up, a number registering in fluorescent red letters. Hank raised an eyebrow before jotting the number down on his clipboard.

"What's it say?" Scott asked.

"Ninety-three kilograms," Dr. McCoy answered nonchalantly, eyes still fixed on Scott's medical records. Scott sped through the mental math easily.

"205 pounds...seems too high," he observed agitatedly. "Are you sure that's right?"

"Scott, I'm quite certain that all the equipment in this lab is in perfect working order," Hank assured him. "The ideal weight for a man your height and build is somewhere between 190 and 200 pounds, it's really nothing to worry about." But the numbers weren't all that bothered Scott.

"Hank," he asked, keeping his back straight as the doctor adjusted the metric measure to rest on top of his head. "What would a doctor usually prescribe lithium for?" Hank took as step back, observing Scott critically.

"Depression," he answered carefully. "Most commonly bipolar disorder..." Scott seemed troubled by his answer. "Why do you ask?"

"Among some of the things I had with me at the hotel," Scott admitted, uneasily. "Were a couple bottles of pills—lithium, zolpidem—I have no idea how I got them, even how long I've been taking them...I suppose you're gonna want to run and see the professor about this?" Hank eyed his younger patient critically.

"What I may see or hear in the course of the treatment in regard to the life of men, which on no account one must spread abroad, I will keep to myself, holding such things shameful to be spoken about." He rattled off faithfully, raising one hand.

"Hippocratic Oath," Scott inquired. Hank nodded.

"The classical version," he elaborated. "None of that pansy modern stuff..." Scott couldn't help but crack a smile. "Could you take a seat on the table and take off your shirt," Hank asked, indicating the stethoscope. Scott complied, following the prompts Dr. McCoy gave him as he listened to his heart.

"Breathe in...Breathe out. Breathe in...Breathe out." Hank moved behind him, stethoscope pressed to the back of his rib cage. "Breathe in...Breathe out. Breathe in...Breathe out...Scott."

"Yes?" Scott asked, brow arching curiously.

"You have a scar on your back..." Hank explained. The truth was, he had several, and across his chest and arms as well.

"Probably from a mission," he suggested. "Or the crash." Hank noticed how the younger man had to purposefully clench his jaw to omit the phrase 'that killed my parents.'

"I don't think so," Hank offered in return. "It's isolated, much younger scar tissue. It's very clean..." Scott's brow creased significantly as he paused to recollect any incident that could have resulted in the wound.

"Scott," Hank determined finally. "I think you were shot."