Gift fic!
For doranwen, who commented on my wish granting post and asked for Scott/Ororo fic. I did my best! :]
Title: empty as a pocket with nothing to lose
Author: Me! Or, uh, amazingly_me
Rating: PG-ish? Some language.
Characters/Pairings: Scott, Ororo, and Scott/Ororo if you want to see it there. That's how I wrote it, but it isn't quite as strong as I set out to make it. Ah, well.
Summary: "It is easy, Ororo thinks, to grieve together." Ororo and Scott deal with Jean's death.
Spoilers/Warnings: Er. Don't read the summary! Don't read the summary! No, I think that counts as common fandom knowledge now. So...nothing. :] Well, a bit of language. But that's it.
Notes: Title from "Diamonds on The Soles of Her Shoes" by Paul Simon. Because I'm cool that way? Also, a weird mishmash of movieverse and comic verse, but I think anyone could read it and understand it. It isn't really particular to one universe at all. :]
It is easy, Ororo thinks, to grieve together. Their pain rubbing together, raw and open. They're sitting three feet apart, and Ororo remembers when Jean was alive, the easy togetherness that followed her everywhere, arms thrown around shoulders and feet kicking happily against each other.
A best friend is such an easy thing to say you have, until she is painfully, bluntly gone.
*****
Ororo has always hated wearing black. She has made a life, her life, out of life itself, and now she is shrouded in black and cannot quite care.
The world is ever so slightly off-kilter through the holes in her veil. Everything she sees is finely misted by black lace, and she remembers Jean's hair. It was a shade of red she cannot quite place, cannot quite remember. It is ridiculous, she thinks, that she is close to tears at the thought.
"Ororo," Scott says from her right, and she turns. He lifts the veil ever so slightly and shakes his head ruefully, blushing.
"Sorry," he says, his lips twisted into a grimace, "it just...didn't look quite right. Couldn't see your eyes."
It is not his visor, though that is harsh and bright. It is his blush that gets closest to Jean's hair. Soft, she thinks, and cannot muster the energy to think it is ridiculous, only that it is familiar.
*****
She spends the week in her room, coming down for meals long after everyone is asleep. She knows, somewhere behind her eyes, that it is to long to spend closeted away, but her stomach churns at the thought of conversation and too bright sunshine.
She does come down to dinner though, after a week. There are bags under her eyes and she is thin, fragile. Breakable.
But everyone greets her warmly, and says nothing about the bread and peanut butter and water disappearing from the kitchen in the middle of the night.
She slides into her seat with practiced familiarity and feels first the sharp ache of the empty chair beside her, fresh and hot after a week of a dulled world.
Jean's chair is empty, and so she sees, is Scott's. For an instant she feels a twist in her stomach, like swallowing boiling soup. Like he is gone too. Not just gone, she thinks, but--
But he isn't, and she has to eat her dinner, has to make conversation. Has to be just fine, thank you. Yes, I'm afraid that was rather silly of me. Yes, I'll be just fine. Of course.
*****
She waits in the kitchen.
She feels, through a haze of sleep and grief, a bit like a small child. Needy and silly, waiting in the kitchen in her pajamas at one o' clock in the morning.
But she still waits.
He appears, eventually. Shuffling into the kitchen, looking far more awful she is sure then she has ever seen him.
He starts when he sees her, but does not acknowledge her. He simply shuffles on toward the cupboard.
"Scott," she says, and he holds up a hand.
"Please," he says levelly, "don't tell me this isn't healthy. I've already had that projected into my mind for Christ's sakes."
"I wasn't." She says, and he shakes his head.
"I was only going to ask you to come to dinner."
He begins to move toward the door, and she feels the cold granite countertop under her fingers, grounding her.
"I miss you, Scott." She says, and pushes herself up with her palms, and goes to bed.
*****
Scott is not at dinner the next night, but he is the night after that. She smiles, only a little shakily, and gestures to him to sit next to him.
She feels her stomach drop away as he glances at the chair then back at her. She is all to aware of what she is asking, all to aware of the empty chair next to her, and she waits.
He gets up and pulls the chair away from the table, his fingers skimming her shoulder as he sits.
She thinks about saying good evening, but she doesn't.
"Hello Scott." She says quietly. The corner of a smile pushes its way onto her face, and she lets it stay, quiet and telltale.
"Hello Ororo." He says.
There is a pause in which all kinds of things could be said.
"Pass the potatoes?" He says.
I...don't know. Thoughts? I hope you like it doranwen. :] Happy Holidays!
Title: empty as a pocket with nothing to lose
Author: Me! Or, uh, amazingly_me
Rating: PG-ish? Some language.
Characters/Pairings: Scott, Ororo, and Scott/Ororo if you want to see it there. That's how I wrote it, but it isn't quite as strong as I set out to make it. Ah, well.
Summary: "It is easy, Ororo thinks, to grieve together." Ororo and Scott deal with Jean's death.
Spoilers/Warnings: Er. Don't read the summary! Don't read the summary! No, I think that counts as common fandom knowledge now. So...nothing. :] Well, a bit of language. But that's it.
Notes: Title from "Diamonds on The Soles of Her Shoes" by Paul Simon. Because I'm cool that way? Also, a weird mishmash of movieverse and comic verse, but I think anyone could read it and understand it. It isn't really particular to one universe at all. :]
It is easy, Ororo thinks, to grieve together. Their pain rubbing together, raw and open. They're sitting three feet apart, and Ororo remembers when Jean was alive, the easy togetherness that followed her everywhere, arms thrown around shoulders and feet kicking happily against each other.
A best friend is such an easy thing to say you have, until she is painfully, bluntly gone.
*****
Ororo has always hated wearing black. She has made a life, her life, out of life itself, and now she is shrouded in black and cannot quite care.
The world is ever so slightly off-kilter through the holes in her veil. Everything she sees is finely misted by black lace, and she remembers Jean's hair. It was a shade of red she cannot quite place, cannot quite remember. It is ridiculous, she thinks, that she is close to tears at the thought.
"Ororo," Scott says from her right, and she turns. He lifts the veil ever so slightly and shakes his head ruefully, blushing.
"Sorry," he says, his lips twisted into a grimace, "it just...didn't look quite right. Couldn't see your eyes."
It is not his visor, though that is harsh and bright. It is his blush that gets closest to Jean's hair. Soft, she thinks, and cannot muster the energy to think it is ridiculous, only that it is familiar.
*****
She spends the week in her room, coming down for meals long after everyone is asleep. She knows, somewhere behind her eyes, that it is to long to spend closeted away, but her stomach churns at the thought of conversation and too bright sunshine.
She does come down to dinner though, after a week. There are bags under her eyes and she is thin, fragile. Breakable.
But everyone greets her warmly, and says nothing about the bread and peanut butter and water disappearing from the kitchen in the middle of the night.
She slides into her seat with practiced familiarity and feels first the sharp ache of the empty chair beside her, fresh and hot after a week of a dulled world.
Jean's chair is empty, and so she sees, is Scott's. For an instant she feels a twist in her stomach, like swallowing boiling soup. Like he is gone too. Not just gone, she thinks, but--
But he isn't, and she has to eat her dinner, has to make conversation. Has to be just fine, thank you. Yes, I'm afraid that was rather silly of me. Yes, I'll be just fine. Of course.
*****
She waits in the kitchen.
She feels, through a haze of sleep and grief, a bit like a small child. Needy and silly, waiting in the kitchen in her pajamas at one o' clock in the morning.
But she still waits.
He appears, eventually. Shuffling into the kitchen, looking far more awful she is sure then she has ever seen him.
He starts when he sees her, but does not acknowledge her. He simply shuffles on toward the cupboard.
"Scott," she says, and he holds up a hand.
"Please," he says levelly, "don't tell me this isn't healthy. I've already had that projected into my mind for Christ's sakes."
"I wasn't." She says, and he shakes his head.
"I was only going to ask you to come to dinner."
He begins to move toward the door, and she feels the cold granite countertop under her fingers, grounding her.
"I miss you, Scott." She says, and pushes herself up with her palms, and goes to bed.
*****
Scott is not at dinner the next night, but he is the night after that. She smiles, only a little shakily, and gestures to him to sit next to him.
She feels her stomach drop away as he glances at the chair then back at her. She is all to aware of what she is asking, all to aware of the empty chair next to her, and she waits.
He gets up and pulls the chair away from the table, his fingers skimming her shoulder as he sits.
She thinks about saying good evening, but she doesn't.
"Hello Scott." She says quietly. The corner of a smile pushes its way onto her face, and she lets it stay, quiet and telltale.
"Hello Ororo." He says.
There is a pause in which all kinds of things could be said.
"Pass the potatoes?" He says.
I...don't know. Thoughts? I hope you like it doranwen. :] Happy Holidays!