For ficwriter356 both on here and on a03. I hope you enjoy it, and I'm sure it's painfully obvious how I feel about certain characters after finishing Death of X. There's mentions of Scott x Bobby, Scott x Warren, and Scott x Logan because I'm trash and I ship all of that. There's also a mention of Scott x Jean but that's to be expected when I try not to diverge from canon too much.
Prompt: everyone's thoughts on Scott dying (I know Psychlocke was also in the lineup, but I'm not too good at her character so I omitted her. I hope the people I did include are good enough though.) (It' painfully obvious I'm absolute trash for Bobby x Scott, I'm sorry.)
Scott felt his stomach churn, vomit trying to rush up his throat. He swallowed it down, tears burning at his eyes and pooling in his visor before slipping through a crack somewhere. He felt like he was suffocating, drowning, going deep into blackness that no matter how much light was shone in, seemed to suck it all in, snuffing out the candles. He watched as the Inhuman known as Black Bolt stopped his powers. The last remains of Scott's body seemed to flutter away in the wind, incinerated, turned to ash, filleted by whatever power the Inhuman possessed. Scott felt the Earth slipping out from underneath his feet, the red stained sky suddenly in front of him and the rocky ground coming up on him faster than his heart could even beat.
The face of the adult Bobby suddenly appeared before him, coldness spreading from his neck down his back. He had stopped his fall, caught him before he smacked his skull on the ground. His ears were ringing and he couldn't hear what Bobby was trying to say to him. All he could think about was that no matter how hard he tried to change his fate, he was going to end up dead. He was going to die with people and mutants and Inhumans all hating him. So little people were going to care about him and he was going to die. Jean was going to die, Professor Xavier was going to die, everyone he ever loved and cared about was going to die. From his own hands, his own choices, his own actions. People were going to die and so was he.
His ears were ringing and he looked up at the red-sky, wishing that he could see it's true colours just one more time in his life before he died. If he could see the sky without blood in his eyes once before he died, then maybe he could die peacefully. He wondered if his adult self ever got that wish to come true. Or if he died never knowing what Jean's hair looked like in reality. If he never got to see his wife in her wedding gown, not tainting by his curse. Scott turned his head from the sky and away from Bobby, his whole body shaking and he suddenly felt the acidic burn of vomit all to strongly in his nose. He threw up a few times, this adult version of his friend never putting him down. Then it all faded to black.
He couldn't even understand what Scott was saying. The other was talking rapidly, tear streaks down his dirty face and he was shaking so badly. Every word came out with a stutter and a sob. Scott was hugging himself and rocking on the floor and as much as Bobby tried to calm him down, nothing was working. He had his arm around Scott's shoulder, talking to him a low, soothing tone. "Scott, please. Calm down. Tell me what happened, man. I can't help if you don't tell me."
His adult self walked in, blue eyes soaking in the scene, a horrible, wretched expression in them. "You're not going to calm him down anytime soon," he said, voice hoarse and cracked. "He's just watched his older self get turned to particles by Black Bolt. Cyclops is dead." Scott let out a screaming sob, biting down on his knuckles and doubling over. Bobby's heart missed a beat and then clenched tightly as he turned away from his older self and back to Scott. There was a horrible dread in his chest and- in his head- it wasn't the older version he was seeing. It was this Scott. The Scott he knew and loved and was friends with. They fought sometimes, but they were still friends. His friend was going to die. Tears welled up in his eyes and poured down his cheeks, but all he could do was pull Scott closer into a hug, combing his fingers through Scott's hair. He whispered to himself and to Scott, over and over again, "Shh… It'll be okay. It'll all be okay. It's okay." He knew, deep down, however, someday, his older self would stumble on this scene and know- in his heart- nothing was ever okay.
Hank was sitting on the sofa. A few of the adults were going around, stopping everyone and talking to them in hushed tones, relaying the news. Hank, however, had the misfortune of overhearing the conversation, as his hearing was slightly more developed than average. When the woman known as Storm began to approach him, he felt his palms shaking, heart going at a frantic pace. She sat on the chair across from him, her pupiless eyes looking at him, staring from within the void of white. "Hank-"
"Cyclops is dead," he interrupted, voice monotone. "I overheard." He looked down at his hands, focusing hard on the details in them, knowing that someday, he wouldn't be able to see the creases, the lines. Someday, they would be blue and covered in fur and really, he should be devastated to hear that the adult version of his friend had just died, but there was nothing inside of him anymore. He just… wanted to go home. He wanted to go home and forget the future that was waiting for them. "Is Scott doing alright?"
Warren felt like he was never going to be able to close his eyes without seeing Scott stand there and be blown away. He wasn't particularly close to the adult version of his friend, but when things had become so confusing for him, being time-displaced, knowing what happened to his wings, Cyclops had welcomed Warren with open arms. He didn't treat Warren like a child even though he wasn't nearly as skilled or experienced as his adult counterpart. Instead, Cyclops had taught him, trained him, believed in him. It seemed so much more sincere coming from Scott than it ever had coming from Professor Xavier.
When he stood there, his wings burning behind his back, and watched Scott let himself be killed, he felt like a part of his soul had been ripped out and thrown into the breeze with the ashes of Cyclops; existence. His heart thudded dully in his chest. The group of X-men and other mutants had all made the journey back to the 'school'. Everyone was quiet and mourning, but Warren felt like he needed to fly, needed to scream. He stepped outside, ignoring the bite of cold from the wind, ignoring whoever had said his name behind him and ran. He snapped his wings out, the flames igniting and threw himself into the air. He flew up high, he flew fast, he flew until his lungs felt like they were going to explode. So he began screaming. Tears that should have been hot felt like ice as they cut down his cheeks. His throat grew raw and his skin red as he flew into the cold. Then he just suddenly stopped and let himself fall to the ground. He heard someone scream from below; he hadn't realised he was so close to the school again. Just as he was about to hit the ground, he flapped his wings, propelling him back up some, then let himself fall the last few feet.
He hit the ground with a thud, the fire of his wings making the snow melt and soak into his back and hair. His breath had been knocked out of him when he landed. He stared up at the endless sky, tears frozen onto his cheeks.
Laura refused to cry. She hadn't known about his death until she had found Warren laying out in the snow, his nose bright red from the cold and his teeth clattering together. She grumbled, made him stand, brought him inside. They sat on her bed and she rubbed his back, trying to coax out of him the reason as to why he thought laying in the snow was a good idea. He started to cry again, voice cracking when he said her name. She hadn't ever seen him so upset and the weird twist in her chest was foreign to her. "Laura-" he said again, "-he's dead. Cyclops is dead."
She didn't know why it hit her so hard, hard enough that forcefully exhaled. Cyclops was single-handedly responsible for the demise of their kind. At least, that's what she had thought so for so long, until she joined the ranks of the X-Men and learned that everything she believed to be true was corrupted somehow. She had learned about the other side of the coin and come to value and respect Cyclops. She didn't feel nearly as sad as she could have, but maybe that was because she spent most of her life repressing her emotions. There was a definite ache in her chest and she brought her free hand up to place it over her heart, feeling it's erratic, unsteady beat. "Oh, Warren," she said, her own voice strained and threatening to break. "I'm so sorry."
To Illyana, something had been very wrong for a long time now. On the tip of her tongue, scratching just beneath her mind, but she could never put into words. Daisuke was sitting next to her, his head between his knees. She had brought him to place where the Inhumans wouldn't find him, where the X-men wouldn't find him. Not unless they really, really had to. She didn't hate Inhumans like maybe she should have.
She sighed and Daisuke turned to look at her. "Why are you still here?"
"Because there is nothing for me anywhere else. Cyclops is dead and Emma is in charge. It all feels wrong to me, but I don't know why. I will return eventually; I must. But that doesn't mean I'm going back right away," she answered, pulling out blades of grass beside her. There was a sullen ache in her chest and perhaps she had always fostered affection for Cyclops, but to know he was dead and gone from this world, made her feel an emptiness she hadn't felt since Piotr left her when she was young. "This was never supposed to happen, but I feel like… I feel like Emma knew what would happen all along and just let it take it's course."
Daisuke grunted. "I was so excited to become an Inhuman," he said, words bitter. "I thought it would finally give me a sense of purpose in this world. Mutant-life had passed me up. Puberty came and went and I never… became anything special. But then I heard about Inhumans and I wished so hard to be one. I wanted to be special. Now I know, there's nothing special about any of this. Only horrible."
Illyana nodded in agreement. "Horrible seems to be a continuing theme in my life."
Ororo had watched in horror as Cyclops gave up his life, attacking the Inhumans with one last, needless attack. It wasn't like him to throw his life away like that, especially since he had children to look after, back at the makeshift, prisoner for a school he had opened. She flew down to the spot where he had been standing, her heart thudding in despair. She barely paid any mind to the other mutants in the vicinity, reaching her gloved hand to the small pile of ash that was the remains of Scott. The air was eerily still around her. She turned to face the Inhumans, anger and fury on her expression even though she was trying so hard to keep her cool. She stalked up to the man known as Blackbolt, shoving a finger into his chest, yelling at him. "OF ALL THE WAYS TO END A CONFLICT, YOU DECIDED ON MURDER!"
The man scowled and opened his mouth to defend himself, Ororo assumed, but the sudden crack of lightening from behind her silence him. "We may have ended this, but from here on forth, Inhumans and mutants work together! We do not kill simply because we disagree; I had hoped you of all people would have understood that! This is over, but my people will not forget that instead of peaceful solutions, you only turned Cyclops into a martyr." She turned on her heel, a disgusted scowl thrown towards Medusa, and flew away from them, to the rest of the group. Anger pulsed through her veins and she knew she'd have to work that anger off before she thought about sitting down with the other mutants who had stayed behind and explained to them that Scott Summers was dead.
Word had it's way of getting around, and by it's way, Logan meant the news. He wasn't certain if the reporter, most definitely human, was relaying the news as if it was a celebratory or as if it was another death in the world. The death of a prominent figure, neither good or bad but simply renowned. He finished off his beer, wiping his mouth with the back of his had.
A few years sooner, maybe he might have mourned the man's death.
He paid his tab and made his way back to his apartment, mulling over the news of Cyclops' death. He entered his apartment, not bothering to turn on lights as he kicked off his boots and undid his belt. He shuffled to his living room, grumbling to himself. Scott was an asshole, he told himself over and over. He had killed Chuck, only got in the way when he pursued Jean. Scott was nothing but trouble and it was good that he was finally gone. Maybe mutant-kind could finally get a break. He punched the punching bag that was hanging up in his living room, letting out an angry growl.
He repeated those thoughts like a mantra until the only things in his head were every single bad moment he had ever had with Scott. Every fight, every bicker, every swear word and punch. It wasn't until he realised he had stopped punching the bag and was instead holding it steady with his hands that were shaking so badly he had to focus on them to stop, that the good thoughts rolled in.
Every laugh and joke, shoulder bump, agreement. Every time they realised they were a good team and gruffly complimented each other. Every little look and touch, that had held so much more potential that they had tried so hard to act on, but Emma had never let them have anything good in their lives. Every secret kiss they shared and every night they spent, sweating and breathing in each other. He growled, claws sliding out as he punched the bag again. Everyone he ever loved died and it was only for the best that he stopped letting people into his life. It was for the best that Scott was gone, because he would never have to suffer under his stare again. Never have to relive those moments when his scent got stuck in his nose.
If it was really for the best, however, why did his chest hurt so bad?
He had been ready for this moment the entire time. He knew, somewhere in his mind, that Scott was actually dead, and had been dead. Perhaps not physically dead, but there were moments when he'd hear Scott's voice and turn only to see Emma, standing there, expectant, waiting. It would take a moment and then he'd see Scott. Perhaps his mind had been preparing him for this moment all along and he wasn't actually losing it.
But when he heard Scott had died, Hank had been deep in thought over a jumbled mess of equations in front of him. The Inhuman he had been working with gasped when Medusa came on the screen, beside her stood Emma, her body diamond and her mouth turned down in something between a sob and a scowl.
"Cyclops is dead," Medusa had said, her voice echoing in his head even as Emma began to speak. He hadn't been ready for the way his heart seized up and his brain momentarily seemed to lack the ability to function. Of course, he knew that was ludicrous because the brain never actually stopped working until death. His eyes burnt and he knew that the fur on his cheeks were getting wet, dripping to the floor below him. He had known Scott for so, so long. They were friends and even though they hadn't always seen eye to eye, they were friends. It was a horrible, aching pain all through his chest. A fire burnt in his throat and he had to sit down, head between his knees as he began to sob. His mind may have been trying to prepare him for this moment, and perhaps it had been trying for many, many years, but it didn't soften the blow. The knowledge that someone he had known and cared about for twenty-some years was dead, gone. Not so much as whisper went through the laboratory as Hank sat there, breathing rapidly, crying.
He would very much rather have switched places with Scott if it meant his friend got to live even one more day.
Bobby didn't know what Scott thought he was doing, approaching the Inhumans like he was. The way he held his body didn't register right with Bobby, something was off. From his spot, he couldn't hear what was being exchanged between them, but the way Scott was pacing, swinging his arms, it made his heart miss beats. He thought back to the other week, when he came across Scott sobbing in his room, fists balled up into his eyes. His tick causing him to repeat himself so many times. He thought about the kiss he placed on Scott's lips.
He thought about how Scott had kissed him back and how they kissed whenever they were alone, which became increasingly less and less. He thought about how Emma seemed to be at his hip all the time in the past few weeks, how Scott so much hadn't turned to look twice at Bobby. He knew something was wrong and he hadn't seen it until it was too late. Scott was reaching up to his visor, ready to shoot at the Inhumans. The one known as Blackbolt stepped in front of everybody, pulses seeming to come off his body, literally shredding Scott's flesh off his bones. It turned him into paper thin particles that flew away in the wind. Bobby's face twisted in absolute horror, his heart dropped down through his stomach, pain he had never known possible welled up in his he hadn't been in his ice form, he knew the tears would be spilling. He made a move toward the pile of… Scott, but saw Ororo was already beating him to it.
He stepped back and noticed, out of the corner of his eye, the younger version of the man he had been slowly falling in love with for years, falling to the ground. He hurried over to him, catching him just before his skull would have connected with the ground. "Kid, kid are you alright?" His chest felt tight as he held the alive and well version of Scott. The young version he knew his young self was already starting to dream about. He knew that his younger self was tearing himself apart over it and that he would never tell Scott until it was too late. "Scott?" Bobby asked if he was okay again, tensing when Scott rolled over and vomited.
When they were back at the school, he saw himself sitting with Scott on the floor as Scott screamed. His heart ached and he held back the tears as he told himself what had happened. He knew that Bobby would catch the way his voice hitched and his breathing was strained. He walked away and out the back door, creating an ice dome where he spent the next few hours sobbing, Scott's name never leaving his mouth but always on the tip of tongue and tingling against his lips.
Warren wasn't quite sure how he found out. Perhaps someone came to visit him and let it slip. Maybe he had heard it on the news. Either way, it hadn't registered to him until night came and he was sitting up in bed, wondering why his hands were shaking and palms sweating. He knew plenty of other people who had died over the years. Jean and Kurt came to his mind as the most painful. Scott, however, was the freshest. There was a familiar emptiness inside of him, the same emptiness that he had felt after he had been fused with Apocalypse and then after they had been separated. It wasn't something he enjoyed, an emptiness that ate away at your insides, trying to fill itself, only destroying you more in the process.
He remember how he sat with Scott, having someone to talk to about fusing with Apocalypse and losing a part of you to him, not only a part of your life, but a part of your mind. A part that created that emptiness at the most inopportune times. He swallowed, wiping his hands on his bedspread, trying to calm himself down. Scott's death wasn't any worse than Kurt's or Jean's, he told himself. He knew he was lying to himself, though. You don't go what he and Scott had and not realise that you are, in all honesty, alone in this world. He and Scott had literally been singled out by Apocalypse, tainted by him, corrupted and abused. Yet they had each other and so maybe they weren't as alone as Apocalypse tried to make them feel. He remembered what it felt like to kiss Scott, scared and tentative and something that only happened that night, but still something that had helped fill that emptiness. Until now.
Without Scott, Angel was truly and utterly alone. No one understood his pain, his past. No one knew what it was like for him when he wasn't Angel but instead Death. Scott was gone and with him had gone the only way of keeping the emptiness contained. He found himself sobbing, his breaths coming in rapid, laboured patterns, wheezes penetrating the silence of his home. Slobber and snot and salty tears dribbled down his face and it was the ugliest Warren had ever cried since the day his tried to saw off his wings. He had never felt so empty.
Erik wasn't a sentimental man, or so he liked to say. He had no qualms over shooting his own son in the kneecap once, but there was a definite sad ache in his chest when he found out that Cyclops had died. Perhaps, in a way, Magneto felt like it was his responsibility to make sure Scott stayed safe, especially after Charles' had died. Or perhaps, in his own twisted way, he had come to care for the x-man. As annoying and compulsive, controlling and nit-picky the boy had been, he had always pulled through, often laying down his own pride for the sake and safety of others. Something Magneto commended him for, but would never do himself. They worked together for a while, and Magneto had come to realise he did indeed hold a fondness for Cyclops. Scott had been everything his own children could never be: independent.
So when he heard that the Inhuman, Blackbolt, had killed Scott in one fowl swoop, he was willing to call bullshit. He knew there was something up with Emma and he confronted her, but she was an unmoving stone, sticking to her story and accusing Erik of not having a heart. It only served to prove his thoughts were right. Scott had either died before Blackbold killed him, ran off into hiding, or Emma knew that Scott had been planning an almost suicide-esque death. And the frantic skip in his heart only made him frown, eyes dry but not without aching.
Alex always knew that it was the younger brother's job to eventually attend the older brother's funeral. He hadn't been expecting to be so goddamn early in their lives, however. Well, so goddamn early in Alex's. Scott's was over. When he heard the news, delivered so dryly by Emma, her features set in stone even though she was not glistening diamond, he almost broke down. He had always argued with Scott, just like any brother. Lorna had been an argument, one that had almost cost lives at one point. They were always fighting, always bickering, even when they were on the same side. He knew that he would never have that again. He bite his tongue and pulled out the suit.
After the funeral, Emma stood next to him, her body diamond and the sound of the rain hitting off of her was almost musical. He knew his brother wasn't down there, not a single bit of him was down there. When he discovered that Scott had died long before the fighting with the Inhumans had taken place, his knees went weak. He fell to the floor, looking at the rotting, mutilated corpse of his older brother, his chest suddenly far to heavy for him to breathe. Emma was talking, but the ringing in his ears had drowned her out and he felt like he was going to be sick. He took a shuddery breath, pushing himself to his feet and staring at Emma. He swore at her and turned on his heels, but he knew he couldn't tell anyone. That would only start more fights between mutants and Inhumans. He walked in the rain until everything built up inside of him and be started screaming, shooting his plasma blast out to the ocean, letting all the anger and anguish leave him until he fell to his knees, sobbing into the open air.
Emma knew. She had known for so, so long now. Seeing it happen again was a completely different experience, however. Her nose was bleeding from the strain of keeping up her facade. Tears streaked down her face, and her face hurt from sobbing. She was crying before it even happened, because she saw in her head, in 'Scott's' head, what was about to happen. "Ideas never die," she whispered to herself, at the same time Scott had said it.
Now, she sat, her gloved hands tracing the bridge of his nose, a sad, broken smile on her lips, her diamond blue eyes tainted with the insanity that was starting to creep along the edges of her mind. No one could ever know. Never. Alex had been the only acception. She would take this secret to the grave, she told herself. She leaned down, kissing Cyclops' chest. To Emma, Cyclops wasn't dead, because she had turned him into an idea, and ideas could never die.