Emma stood at the door to Scott's office, chewing on her bottom lip. It was a gesture she would stop immediately as soon as someone approached, of course, but she was alone in the hallway for a moment.
She was angry at herself for being so hesitant. Hesitant to knock on the door, and to talk to her boyfriend about the death of his father. And the reason she was hesitant was because she did not think she would say the right thing, and then he would be angry at her, and the tension between them would return.
They had been...happy...recently. Getting along. Emma was loathe to see that end, and then she felt guilty for thinking that. Scott needed her, and she wanted to be there for him.
She was just painfully worried she was going to say the wrong thing.
When has that ever stopped you before, Frost?
Emma knocked on the door. "Scott? Darling, it's me. May I come in?"
"Come in," he said, and smiled as she opened the door. "So you ask, these days, and Logan doesn't?" He frowned and amended. "Not that Logan ever did ask."
He smiled, twirled a pencil between his fingers, let her know that he was fine.
"I was coming to see how you were." Emma stood next to his desk. She watched him with the pencil. He was smiling.
It felt all wrong.
She put her hand on his shoulder. "My father and I have a...complicated...relationship. I can't imagine that it's easy to go through this, when you love yours."
He made a conscious effort not to flinch when she touched him. He thought it almost worked. It wasn't that he didn't want Emma's hands on him. He just -- wasn't ready to be touched right now, by anyone.
"This might seem like a cold thing to say," he answered carefully, "but I don't even remember my childhood that well, and we never spent much time together as adults. If I'm --" he stumbled over the word 'mourning,' it wouldn't quite come out. "--missing anything, it's the lost possibilities. And honestly, those were lost a long time ago." It was basically the same thing he had tried to tell Logan -- although, this time, he stopped before reaching the observation that he could only spend so much time mourning the same death. That would have been inching very close to dangerous territory.
Emma stared at him. "I hate my father. You know I hate him. And if I were feeding you this line, Scott, you wouldn't let me get away with it. Do you think I'm going to do anything less for you?"
"Why don't you try being angry at him, instead of me?" Emma cocked her head. "Don't look at me like that, Scott Summers. You are angry at him and you're trying to convince yourself that you're not, because a good son would grieve instead of be furious." Emma crossed her arms. "You found your father, and you lost him again, and you're angry. At him, at the situation, at Charles Xavier---the man who became like a father to you--for telling you this and leaving, with your daughter and your brother in space."
Emma raised a brow. "Hell, I'm angry about that. You certainly have to be."
He breathed in, put a hand to his forehead and looked down.
"All right, I know how that sounded. But I'm not. Angry. At you. As for the rest of it -- I guess, maybe, in a sense, I feel that way. But what do you want me to do?"
"Darling, you could try acting like it," Emma said bluntly. "Talk about it, for one. Yell at him, if you need to. Whatever you have to do to get the emotion out. Bad things happen when you hold it all inside and pretend everything is just fine." Emma turned her face away, a little. Believe me, I know.
"As for a physical action? I don't know. Yell. Go to the Danger Room. Get drunk with Logan. Write your father a letter. Cry. Tell me about why you're angry. Don't just lock it all up inside and pretend everything's fine when it's not."
Like you did with Jean. Emma didn't say that, but the implication was probably there.
"I'll keep that in mind," he said, a little gruffly, then paused and raised a hand to her cheek. "I appreciate it, okay. Just -- I'm going to get done with these bills right now, if you don't mind. Then maybe I'll go for a run."
Emma refused to allow him to see that she was hurt. So I am to tell you all of my private hurts and fears, but you will share nothing of this with me.
She sort of wanted to roll her eyes. "Of course, darling. You'll feel better after some exercise. You always do." Emma turned and left him alone, heading towards the door.
She was angry at herself for being so hesitant. Hesitant to knock on the door, and to talk to her boyfriend about the death of his father. And the reason she was hesitant was because she did not think she would say the right thing, and then he would be angry at her, and the tension between them would return.
They had been...happy...recently. Getting along. Emma was loathe to see that end, and then she felt guilty for thinking that. Scott needed her, and she wanted to be there for him.
She was just painfully worried she was going to say the wrong thing.
When has that ever stopped you before, Frost?
Emma knocked on the door. "Scott? Darling, it's me. May I come in?"
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He smiled, twirled a pencil between his fingers, let her know that he was fine.
"What's up?"
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It felt all wrong.
She put her hand on his shoulder. "My father and I have a...complicated...relationship. I can't imagine that it's easy to go through this, when you love yours."
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"This might seem like a cold thing to say," he answered carefully, "but I don't even remember my childhood that well, and we never spent much time together as adults. If I'm --" he stumbled over the word 'mourning,' it wouldn't quite come out. "--missing anything, it's the lost possibilities. And honestly, those were lost a long time ago." It was basically the same thing he had tried to tell Logan -- although, this time, he stopped before reaching the observation that he could only spend so much time mourning the same death. That would have been inching very close to dangerous territory.
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"What do you want me to do, exactly?"
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Emma raised a brow. "Hell, I'm angry about that. You certainly have to be."
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All right, he was yelling.
He breathed in, put a hand to his forehead and looked down.
"All right, I know how that sounded. But I'm not. Angry. At you. As for the rest of it -- I guess, maybe, in a sense, I feel that way. But what do you want me to do?"
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"As for a physical action? I don't know. Yell. Go to the Danger Room. Get drunk with Logan. Write your father a letter. Cry. Tell me about why you're angry. Don't just lock it all up inside and pretend everything's fine when it's not."
Like you did with Jean. Emma didn't say that, but the implication was probably there.
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She sort of wanted to roll her eyes. "Of course, darling. You'll feel better after some exercise. You always do." Emma turned and left him alone, heading towards the door.
Bloody men.
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