Note: Readers who remember the days of Chris Claremont and Byrne's Hellfire/Dark Phoenix arc will note the inspiration from ish #132. I haven't duplicated the exact scene as such here, but there's enough similarity to acknowledge the homage...
Disclaimers: Based on the 2003 sequel, X2: X-Men United. If Bryan Singer and David Hayter won't give me enough Cyclops in the flick, I'll do it myself. As always, the characters are not my property and are borrowed without permission. I'll be returning them a tad disheveled, but still in good working order.
"Whoso regardeth dreams is like him that catcheth at a shadow, and followeth after the wind."
-- Apocrypha: Ecclesiasticus 34:2
He took Jean shopping down at the Westchester Promenade on Labor Day weekend. A shoe sale at Macy's, she claimed, an exchange at Old Navy, or some such nonsense. Really, Scott knew it was just an excuse to steal some time away from the school. Away from the stress, the demands. Away from saving the world. Just the two of them, alone.
Scott was game and the day passed more quickly than he would have imagined. Being with her. Watching her. Listening to her. Indulging in the simple pleasures of her company.
By late afternoon, they were back in the car, heading up I-684 to the county highway that would lead them back home. He had given her a free hand with his CD player and a medley of her favorite tunes sparkled in the air. Coldplay, The Calling, No Doubt. A warm summer breeze rushed through the windows and whipped Jean's hair into a burnished tangle. She didn't seem to mind.
Off the interstate, they came to a brief halt at a stop sign. Scott found himself glancing absently at the money-green Corvette easing up to his left.
The pert blond driving it arched a brow and gave them the once-over. First the car, then him. The blatant admiration in her gaze might have been appealing if it weren't quite so predatory.
He looked back at Jean with a bored expression.
"Bet you can't guess what she's thinking," she said, lips twitching.
"No," he replied, with just a trace of disapproval. "But I'm sure you're going to tell me."
"Nice shades," Jean drawled. Then, she winked at him playfully, letting him know without words that there was never a need to invade the blond's privacy. Her thoughts were as transparent as an open Cosmo.
With a supple shift, Jean dragged a finger up her thigh to the edge of her skirt, teasing him. He felt the warmth of her amusement bolt along his spine, directly into his brain.
She was truly one of a kind.
Impulsively, Scott smiled. Laughter bubbled up from the buried emotional reserve that he sometimes preferred to forget existed.
But not today.
Unable to contain himself, he floored it. The car shot forward so swiftly that he missed any chance of seeing the blond's reaction.
Scott couldn't have cared less.
Because both of them were laughing too hard to stop now. The patchwork landscape of forest and field blurred as the miles screamed past. The music rocked. He pushed it to a leisurely eighty-five miles an hour.
Then, without any warning, he spun the wheel, wrestling the RX8 to the side of the road near a deserted stretch of woods. Before Jean could react, he was out of his seat and climbing into her lap with a dexterity that would make a contortionist weep.
"Scott..."
Her gasp of surprise quickly morphed into a sigh of welcome as he grasped her chin and took her mouth. He went for it -- quick, hot; a kiss wild enough to rattle the fillings in her teeth.
Her fingers twisted in his hair; her tongue slid against his. In a heartbeat, Scott was breathless. Her hips rose between his legs...
And then Jean's pleasure bloomed inside his mind -- a bright flare of passion and need that always took this experience beyond the mere mortal for him.
Seconds passed, then minutes. Slow, soft, wet, determined -- Scott kissed them both into madness.
When he finally came up for air, she met his gaze without flinching. Her eyes were dreamy, unfocused. He wished for nothing more than to drown himself in them.
"Are we there yet?" he whispered. His fingers drifted slowly to the sweet spot where her breast met the side of her body.
Jean thrust her lower lip out provocatively. "We would be if you'd get your ass back into that seat and drive us home, tough guy."
With a grin, Scott gave her nose a last quick kiss and did as she asked.
He put the car in gear and pulled back out onto the highway in a rain of dust and gravel.
"Home," she murmured, leaning back in her seat. She turned her head to look at him--
And something shifted abruptly. Strange. An awareness he could not name -- like a shadow drifting across the sun. A chill crept over him. Scott had to strain to hear her over the blare of music.
"Home," he replied firmly, giving himself a quick shake. He glanced back, raising her hand to his lips.
It was fine. She was fine. Everything was going to be fine.
Jean's fingers slipped from his grasp. Shocked, Scott felt a sudden rupture deep inside -- a terrible shaft of loss.
Reality seized all around him--
He wakes with a gasp, dazed and confused, into a peaceful world of heat and light, wondering how in the hell he got here.
Stirring, Scott struggles to draw that first raw breath. His eyes skip over the familiar shapes inside the room.
Her stack of medical journals. His scattered Green Day CDs. The multihued swatches of fabric she was piecing together into X shirts for the latest crop of students. All their earthly possessions, favorite things, coated with the glow of a late afternoon sun.
And tainted always by the red; an odd hue this time. Ruby quartz turns the golden haze into a sickly wash of amber and brown -- like the color of rotting fruit.
Home, he thinks. Home.
Scott scrapes a hand over the stubble on his jaw. He glances at the clock. With a groan, he burrows into the softness of the bed and prays for a return to sleep.
It is too late though. He's been under for a good forty-eight hours this time. The steady roaring of his pulse and the rank taste in his mouth are a clear warning that for now, his body has had enough.
He could stay here, but what's the point? Another hour or two of twisting and turning will only heighten the brutal sense of what is. Desolation. Despair. The awareness of a hole in his spirit so profound that he doubts he'll ever comprehend the true extent of it.
Flipping back over, Scott quickly identifies the offending source of brightness. The curtains are drawn; a window opened. A mild Indian summer breeze drifts through the room.
Ororo, he thinks, frowning. She must have slipped in while he was out of it and done this, more than likely at the Professor's behest.
Violating each other's privacy is not a common practice in the mansion. Particularly with him. But Scott cannot find it in himself to blame them this time. In the days following the memorial service, he has cut himself off from everyone and everything he holds dear.
Scott knows they are worried. Alex is too. Otherwise he and Lorna wouldn't be sticking around for so long. Regret tugs at the thought that he might be adding to their burden in the wake of her...departure.
The day of the service, the Professor spoke with him briefly. Told him it would be all right; he would get stronger. That with his innate resolve and her memory to guide him, time would eventually heal the breach.
It is a lie.
Scott already has the strength. He knows he does. To survive. To process. To function.
But not to live.
Charles is his teacher. But Jean was his touchstone. She was his emotional link to the people here, reminding him always of who he was, what he had to give. With her beside him, the mansion had truly become his home; the people inside it his family.
Viewed from that perspective, the loss is incalculable.
Scott drags at the tangled sheets; winds them tightly in his fists. Once more, he hears the dreadful silence in his mind. The loss of her presence is like a migraine for the soul -- so agonizing he nearly cries out with the pain of it.
Sleep is the only thing that helps; the only refuge he has left. In the grip of exhaustion -- worn out, weary -- he cannot think, cannot feel.
He does not remember his dreams.
And Scott throws himself into it the way a junkie surrenders to an addiction. Whole days have gone by, two, then three, when he hasn't left this bed.
But he has finally reached the physiological limits of his current stay. The tactician inside quickly catalogues his options. Chemical inducements are something he won't even think about. Scott is still the team leader. If a call comes in, he cannot afford to be unconscious.
He considers taking off in the RX8, but quickly decides not. Even the challenge of navigating county highways at a hundred and twenty miles an hour without killing himself won't be taxing enough to get the job done.
A vague memory stirs at the thought. Something...the car. A familiarity he cannot place but feels he ought to somehow.
Driving home, driving fast. A rare sense of freedom and happiness.
At once, it is gone. Scott figures that is just as well.
He knows what he needs. Everything else is just a waste of time.
Rising, he ignores the pop and protest of limbs resting too long without use. Scott changes quickly, dragging on a tank, shorts, running shoes.
He checks that his glasses are firmly in place.
At last, he is ready.
The halls leading down to sub-level 2 are blessedly empty. Most students are sequestered in their PM classes. There is no sign of any other adults -- Logan, Wagner, or even his brother.
At the indoor track, Scott heads for the AV console and punches up something at random. Audioslave. Which works. As loud as he can stand it.
He begins.
A hundred sit-ups, then two hundred. Followed quickly by a hundred push-ups.
The music rages, a howl of righteous frustration that helps blank out the terrifying stillness. And when that isn't enough, he hits the track.
After five miles, Scott quits thinking. It is easier just to run --as far and as fast as he can.
Ten miles. Then twelve. The mile marker keeps track for him, mocking him with its electronic vigilance.
Fifteen now and he can really feel it. The last half mile he runs at a dead sprint. Faster and then faster, as if trying to escape the wicked truth that has him down here in the first place--
She still won't be there when he's done.
But he can see her in his mind's eye. Not through the bleak dye of the quartz, but rather as she is. Beautiful in body and spirit; full of grace and light. He can sense her keen mind, laced with humility and a self-deprecating wit.
Here, in this place, on the edge of killing fatigue, his systems shutting down, he can feel everything.
Run, he thinks. Run.
Now.
And Scott does. Harder, swifter, until his head throbs and his muscles shriek with annihilation.
His palms tingle. His fingers twitch with the need to hold onto her. He remembers her delicate mental "touch," steadying, so constant, in his head--
~stop~
No.
This is not happening. He cannot hear that -- the sound of her. Her voice, her heart, her soul.
He sobs, unable to draw breath. The grief hits like a stab wound to his chest. Sweat and tears sting in his eyes, lungs ready to explode--
~scott~
His toe catches on the pavement and he stumbles before going down. Hard. Running too fast to catch himself as his momentum drives him right to the floor.
Pain lances in his knees, up his arms. Scott braces himself just in time to keep his face from slamming into the track. A familiar split-second panic hits as he feels the glasses slide.
He clenches his eyes shut and jams them back into place, but not before the fire breathing demon inside him manages a snarl. The acrid stink of cracked rubber and ruined asphalt compound poisons the air.
Fuck.
Rising, Scott takes a moment to regain his bearings. Slowly, methodically, he brushes himself off before strolling into the bathroom where he calmly vomits up what little he has in his stomach. Water, bile, a few flecks of blood. He heads for the mirror and stares at himself dully.
His shirt is soaked through; forearms are scraped raw. Hell, it feels like he's just gone a couple of rounds with a Sentinel. He reaches down and splashes water over his face. The icy slap is barely enough to jerk his wits back into place.
He should have seen this coming. Out there on the track, he lost control. It doesn't matter that it was only for a matter of seconds. The outcome was still the same.
Stupid.
He knows better. That kind of distraction has consequences, not the least of which might be harming himself.
Maybe it is time, he thinks. Time to go, leave the team. Leave the school. It is a temptation that has been whispering ever since they laid her memory to rest.
Scott won't do that, though. Not yet. He has a responsibility to the Professor. And the students. They have lost so much already. John. Jean. He cannot compound that by handing them another. Not when so little is certain in their young lives.
No, he will not leave. Instead, he will keep running -- literally and figuratively. Punishing himself as much as he has to; clinging desperately to the remnants of his discipline and training. He can't perceive any danger in that. Not really. The fall on the track was a wake-up call. Nothing more, nothing less.
Drained, he backs away from the mirror. This isn't healthy and he knows it. Always lean, he can ill afford to lose the muscle mass this routine is surely costing. Jean would be furious with him.
~yes~
He rubs at his temple, telling himself it doesn't matter. It can't.
Damn it, she isn't here.
Bowing his head, Scott runs a hand through his hair. He turns away.
Time, he thinks again. Time at last to take care of a few things he has been putting off for too long.
After a shower, he ventures back downstairs.
It is later in the evening and he passes a few students here and there. Most of them actually look happy to see him, though they quickly avert their eyes. As always, it saddens him to know that kids this young have already learned to dissemble so well.
Seeing him reminds them of Jean, he thinks. For that reason, his presence seems to generate a kind of waited-for relief.
Scott wonders how they would feel to know that the last thing he tried to do was kill her before she died.
Guilt rises, twisting like a knife inside his gut.
He thought he could do this. Now he isn't so sure. But his strategy depends on convincing those around him not to be alarmed.
Scott will no longer allow himself to be a liability in this place.
Ororo and Professor X are already in the dining room when he arrives. There is no sign of Alex and Lorna. If memory serves, Hank cleared out a few days after the service. Logan, as always, boycotts any routine that even remotely smacks of civilization.
To their credit, neither Storm nor the Professor show surprise at his sudden return. And they don't bother him with anything but a mundane query as to how he is feeling. Scott doesn't know if that makes it better or worse.
Getting through that meal is one of the most difficult things he has ever done. Still, he manages to keep it down with a mixture of stubbornness and will.
When the Professor mentions that Logan has been filling in on some of his classes, he cannot help a burst of resentment. With a twist of his lips, he informs Charles he is ready to get back to work.
Too late, Scott regrets it, but he won't reverse himself now. That would mean having to explain. Instead, he sits back and listens to the Professor expound on his latest plan -- assembling a beta team from some of the older students.
Storm jumps on the idea, offering a variety of suggestions. Ordinarily, that would be Scott's bailiwick, but times have apparently changed.
The Professor makes no mention of the primary squad. Scott knows damn well why. The chair next to him has practically been screaming with its emptiness from the moment he entered the room.
Scott gets the clear sense from Xavier that discussing a replacement for Jean is inappropriate at this time. Like he can't handle it.
For some reason, that pisses him off. In the blink of an eye, Scott assimilates all he knows of their current status and decides on the most favorable course of action.
He tells Storm it is time to sketch out a new Danger Room regimen. One with Wagner and Logan thrown into the mix. They have no idea what the opposition will be putting up next. Better to be prepared.
Her eyes widen at the way he coolly asserts his authority. He holds her gaze for a beat longer than necessary. Scott doesn't like to make her uncomfortable, but he figures he owes her one for drawing the drapes up in his room earlier.
Dropping her eyes, Storm nods her assent.
Scott glances at Xavier to see his teacher regarding him steadily. He waits for the familiar "push" of Charles's mental probe. It never comes.
It doesn't have to.
This whole scene today, everything, smacks of the Professor's subtle hand. Consciously or not, Scott knows he has let himself be manipulated. That's okay. It won't be the last time.
He wonders what Charles would think of how little he cares.
Silence descends over their small group. Nobody seems to have much to say any more.
It looks as though dinner is finally over.
Scott excuses himself, meeting both of their eyes one last time. He leaves then. He has to. Before he sees the sadness and concern that they can no longer hide.
On his way back, Scott hears the familiar strains of 'American Chopper' from the television in the common room. He pauses. Some of the boys have probably turned it on in the hope that he'll come in to trade insults or pay tribute with them to Junior's latest masterpiece.
Old habits, comfortable routines. In the past, it's exactly what he would do.
Not now though. He can't. Because those were also the times when Jean used to curl up next to him on the couch with the New York Times crossword or the latest Cornwell novel.
Scott feels a tremor race along his nerves. He stands there alone in the great hall. The sounds of the school echo all around him. He bows his head; shoulders slumping. At last, the mask slips. Grief tears frantically inside.
Then, a sudden movement near the main staircase catches his eye. He straightens abruptly.
Logan emerges from the shadows, taking a drag on his cigar. His eyes reflect the darkness.
"Still running, Summers?"
Scott stares at him blank-faced. He has played enough poker to keep from giving up anything he doesn't want to.
But Logan sees too much. He always has.
Tension crackles in the air. Like glass on the verge of breaking. They stand there, opposite each other. Neither moves a muscle.
"You're killing yourself," Logan finally says. "That won't bring her back."
A casual observation. Simple. Brutal.
And Scott literally sees red. Just like that, he can feel the deadly forces churn inside his head; hear the telltale ringing in his ears. His jaw aches with the struggle for control.
He moves with raptor-like speed and precision -- a legacy of the Danger Room. Incredibly, he manages to catch Logan off-guard for probably the first and last time of his life. Grabbing the other man with all his strength, he slams their bodies together, trapping him against the railing.
"You think so, Logan?" he hisses through his teeth. "Let me tell you something. You don't know anything about this."
They are far enough now from the common room that nobody notices. For Scott, it wouldn't matter if they did.
"I can still hear her," he rasps, deadly soft. "Do you know what that feels like?"
His fingers tense around the other man's throat.
"Do you?"
He can sense Logan's response, a low growl curling just beneath the surface of his skin.
A warning. But he has yet to unsheathe his claws.
Normally, he wouldn't hesitate. Perhaps he can scent how close to the edge Scott really is. Or maybe he just doesn't want to break his cigar.
Scott snorts, but there is no humor in it. Only despair.
"You want to know what it's like, Logan? You think you've got a lock on obsession?" He taps his brow. "Come inside. I fucking dare you."
Logan thrusts out his jaw, looking him dead in the eye.
"Forget it, Sundance," he snaps, adding: "I been there already."
And so he has. On the Blackbird. Damn him.
Scott lets go abruptly and shoves away. His lips tremble. He is ashamed of his own weakness. Sickened that he can no longer hide it. Especially from this particular man.
With a long breath, Scott swipes a hand over his mouth before taking another step back.
"Looks like maybe I wasted my time," Logan finishes, crossing his arms.
In fact, he has, but Scott doesn't have the strength to debate. Bracing himself with what pride he has left, he turns away from the pity in the other man's expression.
"Logan," he says evenly, all business now. "Your concern is noted. But if you think you're in a position to give me advice on this, you can go fuck yourself."
With that, he heads up the stairs, knowing Logan will let it go for any number of reasons. For starters, the utter weariness with which the words were delivered. Not to mention the fact that he actually cursed at least twice in a single conversation.
Either way, he doesn't give a shit.
For Scott is tired now. Too tired to argue, too tired to explain. Too tired to deal with any of this any more.
Instead, he feels the call -- a boundless sense of relief.
Time now, he thinks.
Time at last, to sleep.
The dream surfaced, deceptively calm, from the depths of night. He knew it would. Moving quietly, moving fast; with all the leashed majesty of a Nebraska thunderstorm.
Scott lay on his side, facing the wall, senses taut as she came from the darkness. The bed dipped. There was a faint rustling sound. Jean settled next to him. She brushed the hair back from his forehead before easing the covers down, baring his upper body to the moonlight.
The scent of her perfume curled in his lungs. Shadows wrapped around them both, drawing them close. Scott didn't need to look to know she was naked.
He rolled onto on his back, going completely still. Terrified that the slightest movement, a single gasp, would shatter the substance of it.
Her fingers traced his lips. She leaned forward. Their mouths touched, breath mingling in the silence. The kiss was slick, hard --utterly thorough. A fusion of will as much as a meeting of flesh.
Scott sat up straight, drawing her into his lap. Her body shifted against his with a sinuous glide. The warmth of her skin was soothing against the chill air.
Jean slid her hands into his hair, thumbs brushing over his cheeks. She nipped gently at his lips, teasing him almost with the heated contrast of their proximity.
His breathing quickened as she paused again, mouth hovering a beat from his.
Her tongue traced the corner of his mouth. His eyes drifted shut. She tilted her head and Scott chased her lips -- a silent plea.
And then a cool fingertip skated along his temple, beneath one leg of his glasses. It hooked into the curve by the lens. She tugged gently.
Energy clawed at the backs of his eyes; a warning as familiar to him as breathing. Hot needles drawing blood -- thick, lethal -- spilling over everything he saw.
Scott moved like lightning, gripping her wrist. He felt the glasses jerk, dragging down the bridge of his nose. Just in time, he caught them. Held them tight, keeping them in place.
Safe, he told himself. Safe.
"Jean." He searched her face in the darkness, trying to understand.
Never, even in the wildest realms of his imagination, would he allow himself this fantasy.
Especially after Alkali.
He knew he hurt her there, before. While in Stryker's sway, he nearly destroyed them both.
And yet, even with that...
Jean has no fear.
Scott stared slack-jawed at the vision -- the woman -- before him.
Recognition poured through him. A deluge of wonder and awe and passion and something he had not yet dared to let himself feel.
Hope.
He could not speak.
She murmured his name before pressing her lips to his once more, coaxing them open. Their tongues twined in a wild dance of urgency and heat.
Heaven help him, he could feel the rush inside his head...the blissful texture of her thoughts...the sheer breadth of her regard for him. Everything. She let him see.
His dedication -- working with the kids, with the team, with her. His drive, his intensity. His selflessness, his need. His passions, his creativity -- even his secret weakness for loud music and high speed. All combined together to make him the most fascinating question she had ever tried to answer.
And he was hers. Only hers. The pride she felt in that distinction said more about who he was than could ever be expressed in words.
If Jean was his touchstone, then he was her hero.
This sad, beautiful, noble man whom Xavier rescued from the misery of a solitary existence had given himself over completely to her.
The idea thrilled her more than anything in the world.
A minute passed, then another, before Jean drew back, breathless.
"Do you trust me?" she asked softly, voice lilting inside his head.
In the gloom, her features were sharper somehow. Vulnerable. So exquisite he ached inside. He could not see her eyes and yet he sensed her clearly. She was looking at him, deep into his soul, gazing on those things that only she could understand.
He curved a hand around her neck, meeting her stare.
"Yes."
Once more, Jean touched his glasses. He felt the faintest pressure.
"Do you love me?" She spoke aloud, huskier now.
He swallowed hard, looking away.
"Do you?"
With a deep breath, Scott tipped his head back--
And let go.
"Yes."
He was still holding her upright. Jean moved deftly, bumping against him. It was like a dance, and he knew the steps. Scott shifted, rising up on his knees. She helped him drag off his shorts.
He traced the swell of her breasts, the length of her spine. She sucked in a breath as his hands closed over the curve of her backside. Scott lifted her, settling back on his heels. Jean was guiding him...
And then he felt the slick heat of her body embrace him, spinning his world out of control. Sinking into her this way was like finding heaven. Communion, completion -- a wonder he never believed would exist for him.
He arched his back, needing more. To go deeper. To lose himself. His pulse leapt at Jean's low, responsive moan; echoing in her voice and in his mind.
Her fingers laced with his. The weight of his glasses fell away.
Scott bit down on his lower lip. He squeezed his eyes shut, turning his head.
Tears suddenly threatened. No good. He'd learned long ago that they did not put out the fire.
"Scott?" she murmured. She raised his hand, kissing his fingertips. Then, she tilted his face back to hers. "Open your eyes."
He gasped. "I can't."
I won't.
"You can."
Jean soothed his troubled brow, fingers drifting down to brush his lids, drawing away the tension.
"Don't be afraid."
Scott didn't want to do this; didn't dare take the chance. But there was something so...assured in the way she said the words.
He trusted her. He loved her.
He opened his eyes.
Jean was in his arms, smiling. A small smile, painted with the sapphire-blue tint of moonlight. Her gaze glittered green in the darkness. Shadows chased deep purple highlights from her hair.
The cool kaleidoscope of forgotten color danced in his vision. Like magic.
Unbelievable.
She caught the wetness beading his lashes with a sweep of her thumbs.
And Scott felt the incredible power of her teke flowing through them, steady, where her fingertips made contact with his skin.
The flare, she was holding it. She was holding it back.
The strength was there. A limitless kind of joy. Jean...and so much more. A celestial song. Something he had only recently begun to glimpse in her mind on those dark and frightening nights before she left him for good.
He shook with the realization that she had him now. All of him.
"How?" He thought, reeling inside. "Why?"
"Because." Jean's lips brushed his forehead, fingers clutching in the thick strands of his hair. "I wanted to see you."
She began to move, raising her hips, easing him almost all the way out. A brief pause, and then she slid back again, sighing softly. She pressed a hot kiss to the pulse at his throat.
The sensation was too intense to hold back and he thrust upward, catching her unawares. More than alert now, he was in thrall. Strung tight, eyes wide -- balanced along the ragged edge of mounting pressure and sensual fulfillment.
Finding and then matching her breathless rhythm, Scott began to scale the peak with her at last.
In, and then out, faster, harder. Around him. Inside him. Oh God, she was everywhere. One with him the way that he needed so very badly.
When the end came, it came quickly. Her cry shattered the quiet. Jean slumped, trembling against him. She murmured incoherently in the curve of his neck.
Scott tensed. He wound her long legs around his waist and held her to him, rocked by the fierce power of her release. Through her, stunningly, he felt the formless echoes of his own desire, reflected back on him, intensifying.
Need coalesced inside his head -- her fire, his bliss -- narrowing the world to a single, hot flood of sensation that blinded him to everything but the sheer pleasure of it.
He followed her, driven over the brink by the achingly sweet despair of having everything he ever wanted right there in his arms -- and having none of it at all.
Panic seized him. Desperation etched its way through his soul at the knowledge that he would wake after all this, after finding her again. At the thought that this would all be gone in the blink of an eye.
"Scott..." she spoke softly, drawing him back from the void.
"Don't," he gasped, clinging to her. "Don't leave me here alone."
Her fingers traced the edge of his jaw one last time. Pain leveled him at the parting warmth of her kiss.
"Promise me you'll wait, Scott," she whispered. "Promise me you'll remember."
He tasted the bitter dregs of defeat. Sensed the mounting ache of emptiness; of inevitability. The storm he envisioned was upon him at last -- a nightmare of cold black spaces that slipped through his fingers like rain.
"Scott?"
Her voice, raw with emotion, a last flutter of hope, rising from the ashes--
"I...promise."
Scott wakes with a gasp, dazed and confused, into the icy-cold expanse of night.
With a low groan, he turns to his side. He blinks, drawing his knees to his chest, curling in on himself tightly. The harsh metal frame of his glasses digs into his brow.
He ignores it.
Instead, he concentrates on the one bright vision.
Jean.
If he closes his eyes, he can still feel her there, asleep in his arms, blissfully content. He can smell the scent of citrus in her hair; taste the bittersweet tang of her skin. Her thoughts -- the essence of her -- linger like a fading piano chord inside his head.
He remembers everything. All of it. Right down to the silky wetness of their mingled climax, soaking into the tangled sheets beneath him.
Scott sits up abruptly, legs bent, forearms resting on his knees. He buries his face in his hands.
The Professor talked of her making a choice once. Logan did too.
That seems to be what she offers him now:
Remember this. Remember her. Always. Or sink back into the web of denial he has spun so carefully for himself over the past ten days.
Faced with that alternative, he knows there is no real decision to be made.
If dreams are all he has left, he will not run from them any longer.
He will not run from her.
Scott falls back to the bed, adrift in the solitary chaos of his mind.
~remember~
He does.
And waits, fully awake, for the watery light of a new day.
The End