Reminder: You don't have to read the whole series to understand GUAS
stories. This one, for instance, you need only a knowledge of X-lore to
understand. :)
To Kaylee, who made me like Scott (you little twerp!
Growing Up A Superhero
She was dead. There was nothing else to be said about it.
Even now, weeks later, her scream still echoed in his mind. He had
wanted to stop it. God knew, he'd tried. But she'd held him. Held him
back, held him away, while she died.
The moon had never seemed so cold.
Always, the moon had been a friend. A loving face smiling down on him,
washing away the cares and worries of the day in pale moon-glow. Now it
laughed at him, cruel and cold and vengeful.
Not even during the day could he escape the laughter, for the sun, too,
seemed to mock him. Its radiance shined through the day, exposing him
for what he was, a miserable failure who could save no one, least of all
those he loved. The daylight always tried to outshine what she had
been. Nothing could outshine her in her glory, though. She was
laughter and hope and kindness incarnate, giving to everyone she met.
She had been beautiful.
She had made him feel beautiful. With her, when she would look up at
him with her heart in her eyes, flame red hair draped around her slender
form, he felt like he could do anything, if only she would stay with
him.
~But she didn't stay with you, did she?~
The cold seeped into his bones. Fall in New York wasn't kind. It was a
hateful, grasping thing that sucked the heat from your body, leaving a
cold, dead husk. Birds were smart. They left, escaping through the air
on feathered wings . . . mocking him, because no longer would he see
wings of fire surrounding the woman he loved. There was no escape for
him.
Her cry rang out, frightened, hurt, but knowing what had to be done.
"Scott! Scott!"
But, really, those were crows, weren't they? Birds with wings spread
like shrouds, as black as space, where she had died. An absence of
light in a murky world.
Had anything ever been bright?
Once. When she had been there. She had brought love and laughter back
into his life, after he'd thought it was only a myth. Now he cursed
himself. He cursed himself for opening up again, letting in that love
and light and warmth, knowing it would be removed once more and his
world would seem so much darker. But he hadn't known. He hadn't
*known* it would hurt so much, to lose her. How could he? He had been
a child when his parents died. He barely remembered them. Only in
dreams, at night. He'd felt the pain at their deaths, felt the pain of
being unloved and unwanted, and closed himself up.
Until she had come along, and gently, kindly, carefully, patiently eased
him back into the world. And he had been so *happy.* She had made him
happy. She had made him see the things he'd missed, because no one had
said he could notice them.
And now she was dead. And his world was gray.
"Scott! Scott!" But it was only the crows, wings spread as they fought
over food, beaks flashing deadly in the early moonlight. The sun had
set, bloody streaks of color painting the sky in hues of fire. The moon
had risen. The light had waned to a pale, ghostly reflection of its
former self.
The light always seemed to be waning, now. Food tasted like dust. His
bones itched and ached, the sunlight hurt his eyes or refused to come
out at all. Leaves withered and fell from the trees, only to be crushed
and trampled underfoot, turned into powder. None of it was worth living
for. Not without her.
And he cursed himself for opening up again, and being hurt.
And he doubly cursed himself for taking so long in the doing, that he
had only had such a small amount of time to live . . . before she died.
Yet he lived. And he hated himself for it. He wished his heart would
stop beating, his lungs stop breathing, his brain stop working, but he
was too much of a coward to force it to happen. Because, in spite of
the fact that she was gone, he didn't want to die. Even living a half-
life was better than the unknown, because the unknown was always bad.
So he continued in his half-life.
But he had learned his lesson well. No more love. No more friends.
No more family. One by one, they would all be taken away from him.
Everyone he loved was taken, and he *hurt.* He wanted to cry, but
all the tears were gone. He wanted to weep and shout and rage at the
injustice . . . but he couldn't. He could barely get out of bed in the
morning.
But he could keep the others from dying. If he worked hard enough, if
he made sure nothing happened to them like what happened to her, if he
just didn't love them so much that he was blinded and ripped apart, he
could keep them safe. Kurt and Logan, Piotr and Ororo, and now Kitty.
He would lead them and watch over them, and, above all, he wouldn't let
them see his vulnerabilities. Because he would get hurt. Because they
would die. And he couldn't take that anymore.
Too many deaths. His fault? He didn't know.
"Scott! Scott!"
The crows stretched their wings and launched into the air, talons
clawing against the stone. He stood, pulled his brown jacket tighter
around shoulders that had grown lean. Methodical steps took him to the
protrusion in the ground. The marring of the grass, beneath the tree
where he had first realized he loved her.
There was no body to bury. Only an inscription. "Jean Grey. Beloved
daughter, student, friend. You will be remembered." Formal.
Impersonal. Cold.
He turned away, because he could no longer bear to look. The mansion,
spread across the lawns like a hulking monster, was a long walk away.
The wind picked up, and it carried her scent. Lavender and vanilla and
peppermint candies she liked so much. Sage and oak and laughter and
life. It followed him, tossing his hair, rifling through his clothing,
tugging at his jacket playfully.
The door closed. The wind died. The smells faded, his hair settled.
Her scent was lost. At night, he slept with her pillow, her scent and
memory around him. Already his smell had replaced hers. Slowly, she
was being erased from the earth. She had died on the moon. There was
no body. And he hurt.
"No, Storm." Stay formal. Stay impersonal. Stay cold. Don't let
anyone near, and they can't hurt you. Push down the feelings until you
don't feel them anymore, because they'll get someone killed. Another
person will die. Another person will leave. And you'll be left alone
in the world. As it was in the beginning. . . .
He straightened slightly, pulled his jacket around him to ward off the
clutching chill. Pulled his wall around him to keep in his plea for
friendship, for love. Grasped at the tattered remains of his will, and
yanked them together, to form a barrier no one else would ever get
through, because that would mean death, and pain, and loss. Stay
formal. Stay impersonal. Stay cold. "I'm fine, Storm. Thank you."
*************************
Back to the living room -
Ashes to Ice 1/1
JBMcDragon
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